


adult supervision

by doveslayer



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, But Should Seek That Hug Elsewhere, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drunk Texting, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Phone Sex, Sexting, Sexual Tension, Texting, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-05-13 06:04:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14743328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doveslayer/pseuds/doveslayer
Summary: Peter Parker should not keep drunk-dialing Tony Stark after midnight. But more pressingly, Tony Stark should not keepanswering.In which Tony tries to convince himself he's doing nothing wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is rated M not E but I would describe this fic's general tone and the interactions it contains as "what is obviously an obscene book but it technically contains the word 'fuck' zero times and claims to be about botany"

Tony does not remember giving Peter his number when the phone rings at 2 AM. He also does not remember when the picture of Peter that appears when his phone begins ringing was taken. He thinks he should remember. It’s Peter, grinning, in a t-shirt with the Spiderman insignia on it. It’s – subtle, but not that subtle.

Tony answers.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks. 

“Speaking,” Tony says. “Do you know what time it is?” 

“It’s,” there’s a faint _oof_ , “2:03,” Peter reports. “Eastern Standard Time.”

“Are you all right?” 

“I’m great, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. He giggles.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. He wanders over to his liquor cabinet. “Peter,” he says, “are you—drunk?”

There is no sound on the other end.

“Sorry,” Peter says, after a moment, “I realized you can’t see me nodding. I was nodding.”

“No, I can’t,” Tony says. “Are you somewhere safe? You’re not, you know, about to fall off a roof somewhere, right? That would be a waste of a promising young mind, not to mention thousands of dollars of investment by Stark Industries.”

“I’m not,” Peter says.

“Well,” Tony says. “Good.” 

“I wanted to call you,” Peter says, and it sounds almost rehearsed, “because, like, uh, like, you’re my coolest friend.”

Tony muffles a laugh into the phone. “Understatement of the millennium,” he says.

“And you know a lot about drinking,” Peter continues.

“And now I can’t tell whether to be complimented or insulted,” Tony continues. He pours some whiskey into a glass, drops a couple of ice cubes in. “Is this a Very Special Episode?” 

“No!” Peter says, sounding alarmed. “No, no, not like that, I just meant, so –ever since the spider thing, I thought maybe I couldn’t get drunk, right? But the good news is, I can, and so – I guess, I wanted.”

“Pointers,” Tony says. 

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Pointers.”

“Well,” Tony says. “For starters, I am not a good example to follow. Don’t do what I do.”

“And don’t do what you wouldn’t do,” Peter says. “Grey area.”

“And drinking’s not for everyone,” Tony says. “You don’t need to drink to be cool.”

“I’ve got to be honest,” Peter says, “Mr. Stark, I sort of was not expecting this from _you_.” 

“This isn’t a lecture,” Tony says. “This is me being a responsible adult who is concerned for your well-being and your still-developing mind.” He takes a sip of the whiskey.

“Are you drinking?” Peter asks.

“I told you,” Tony says. “Don’t do what I do. How did you know?”

“You swallowed,” Peter says.

“You _heard_?”

“Also I heard an ice cube,” Peter says, hiccuping, “earlier.”

“Impossible kid,” Tony says. “So was it a party? Is it a party? Don’t tell me you’re just – by yourself, because drinking alone is for losers.”

“I can’t _imagine_ being the kind of loser who would drink _alone_ ,” Peter says, the little shit.

“Okay, fair, I walked into that,” Tony says, taking another sip, swirling the liquid around in the glass. “Answer the question.”

“I started out with people,” he says, “Ned and MJ and I went to a party, but then they left and I still didn’t feel drunk, so I thought I would drink more and call you—”

“Much less lame,” Tony says.

“What time is it where you are?”

“2:06,” Tony says.

“Oh,” Peter says. “I thought you might be in, like, an exciting time zone.”

“This not an exciting enough time zone for you?”

“I just, I assume you’re always somewhere exciting, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, kind of reverently. “Because you lead an exciting life.”

“How much did you have to drink, kid?” Tony says.

“I drank a liter,” Peter says.

“Of what.” 

“Of Everclear?” Peter says, voice rising.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Is that a lot?” Peter asks.

“Well,” Tony says, “that gives me a better idea of your tolerance. What, was there no horse tranquillizer available?”

“Is Everclear not—good?”

“Was I ever this young?” Tony asks the room. “Kid, you have fallen among bad company if you are saying with a straight face that you don’t know if Everclear is good. That’s like asking—” he does his best impression of Peter’s voice, “--is HYDRA, like, bad?”

“So it’s bad,” Peter says.

Tony finishes the drink. Goes to pour himself another one. “It’s important to pace yourself,” he says, into the phone. “Hydrate. Alternate alcoholic with non-alcoholic beverages and snacks.”

“But you just poured yourself another—”

“How acute _is_ your hearing?” Tony asks, trying to think back to what he has been doing on calls with Peter in the past. “Have you heard everything I’ve ever done when I was on the phone with you? Should I be concerned?” 

“No,” Peter says, maybe too quickly. “Uh, Mr. Stark, it’s actually – like, the alcohol sort of, some things stand out way more and other things blur together way more.”

“I wondered how it interacted with your abilities,” Tony says. “Is it affecting your balance at all?”

“My balance is great,” Peter says. “It couldn’t affect my balance if it tried.”

“Sure,” Tony says, with a snort. “Okay.”

“Are you doubting me, Mr. Stark?”

“I’m not doubting you,” Tony says.

“I could do a flip right now,” Peter says, “only I don’t want to wake May.”

“Don’t do a flip,” Tony says, taking another sip, wondering how this is his life. “I like knowing where I stand. It’s good for my ego. You can’t possibly wake your _aunt_ , so instead you telephone _Tony Stark_.”

“You were up,” Peter says. Tony feels strangely fond of the part of Peter Parker that genuinely thought calling him was a logical step. “And you know about drinking.”

“Do you need more friends?” Tony asks.

“I don’t know,” Peter says, “maybe _you_ need more friends?”

“You get very sassy when you’re drunk,” Tony says, “I’m not sure if I like it.” He adds another ice cube.

“Ice cube,” Peter says. He giggles.

“I feel like a bad influence,” Tony says. “Should I feel like a bad influence?”

“No,” Peter says. There’s a silence. “Sorry,” Peter says, “I was shaking my head, but you can’t see.”

“Okay,” Tony says, “I think you need to drink some water, kid.” He adds more whiskey to his glass. “And go to bed.”

“I’m actually _in_ bed,” Peter says.

Tony swallows. “Good,” he says. He can picture it, Peter’s bunk bed in his narrow cluttered room. He always finds it strange when people tell him where they are and it’s a place he knows and can imagine. “Bottom or top bunk?” he asks.

“I forgot you’d seen it,” Peter says, with a yawn. “Bottom, I mostly just store stuff on the top one.”

“Good,” Tony says. “Not as far to fall. Have you drunk water?”

“I don’t feel like moving,” Peter says.

“You’ll feel better in the morning if you drink water.”

“I heal, though,” Peter says, with a yawn, “remember, so maybe?”

“If you can get drunk,” Tony says, “you can get a hangover.”

“Do you get hangovers?”

“I’ve had a hangover for the past forty years,” Tony says.

“Wow,” Peter says. “That’s a long time.”

Tony finishes his drink. “Yeah.”

“That’s way longer than I’ve been alive.”

“Sure,” Tony says, “rub it in, why don’t you?” He finishes the drink. “Get some sleep, kid.”

There’s a little pause. “I’m glad I can get drunk,” Peter says. “That means I’m normal.”

Tony exhales. “I know what you mean,” Tony says. “It can be nice to not have to be – everything you are, all the time.”

“Yeah,” Peter says. Tony hears him yawn again. “I knew you’d understand, Mr. Stark.”

“But don’t make it a habit, kid, okay?” Tony asks. “If you turned into me, I – would not feel great about that. You’re better than that.”

“Good night, Mr. Stark.”

“Good night, kid,” Tony says.


	2. Chapter 2

 Tony texts him in the morning. “Healed?”

Peter sends back a greenish emoji.

“Welcome to the wonderful world of hangovers,” Tony types. “get excited, soon you’ll hear what sounds like the approach of a parade accompanied by elephants and kettledrums”

“nooo,” Peter types.

“you still in bed?”

“yes why”

“stay put” Tony types, “I’m sending you something.”

Is it the best use of Tony Stark’s time, Tony thinks, to send a drone with Motrin, some crackers, and a bottle of Pedialyte to a high school student? Maybe not. But it is what Tony Stark is doing.

“don’t be insulted by the Pedialyte,” Tony types, “it’s not a referendum on your age; it actually works.”

“can I be a little insulted,” Peter types. “oh no do I have to get up and open the window? i don’t want to move”

“you have a healing factor, I thought”

“shut up”

“mr stark”

“mr stark I apologize”

Tony muffles a laugh in his fist.

“mr stark that was inappropriate”

“*Mr. Stark.”

“im sorry for the lack of capitalization it was not intended to be disrespectful”

More Peter typing. Tony both wants to put him out of his misery and wants to see what he is going to say. Finally he decides on the former.

“Mr. parker,” Tony starts to type, “why would I be mad? I deserved that.”

 “*Parker”

Peter’s long bout of typing has already borne fruit, though. A paragraph arrives:

“also I hope I was not in any way inappropriate last night, I know a call occurred, and I remember everything that was said I think but if I don’t remember something maybe I wouldn’t know that I don’t remember but anyway if anything was said by me that should not have been said by me I hope that understanding will be displayed”

“whoa,” Tony types, “passive constructions are back in a big way!”

Then “no, you were fine, nothing to worry about, I can send you the call recording if you’re even the slightest bit concerned but really you were fine. Drunk but fine.”

“you record your calls?”

“legally no”

“oh it’s here!” Peter types.

“Go for it! Reach the window!” Tony types. “I believe in you, spiderman!”

“thank you for believing in me” Peter sends.

The next text is a picture: Peter has managed to web the window open without leaving the bed. He’s giving a greenish thumbs-up and managing to look sourly at the Pedialyte all at once.

Tony sends a picture back; himself extravagantly blowing Peter a kiss, holding a glass of scotch in one hand.

“get well soon”

“oh no” Peter types “you’re actually an alcoholic” and then a sad face emoji.

“yes!” Tony types. “don’t be me!”

 

**

 

When Tony sees Peter next some weeks have passed, enough time that he doesn’t feel like there’s an opening to make any cracks about responsible alcohol consumption. He keeps looking at Peter while the kid talks to him, checking for visible signs of this new depravity. He looks the same. Taller, maybe? No. Then again, teenagers.

 

** 

“I think I might be a bad influence,” he tells Rhodey.

“Yeah?” Rhodey says. “You think?” 

“I’m not trying to be,” Tony says. “Does that get me points?”

“No,” Rhodey says.

“I figured,” Tony says. He goes to pour himself a drink. “Want anything?”

“You’re starting early,” Rhodey says. 

“This is actually the thing I’m worried about,” Tony says. “So, you know, the kid.” 

“Spiderboy?” 

“Spider _man_. Whom I’m –” Tony gestures vaguely. “Mentoring? Recently got very drunk and asked me for, quote, drinking pointers?”

“Isn’t he in high school?” Rhodey says. 

“Yes!” Tony says. “Yes!”

“So it’s illegal for him to drink.”

“You’re not telling me you waited until you were 21?”

“No,” Rhodey says, “but—in that scenario, I was the kid making bad decisions, not the responsible adult.”

“Right,” Tony says, “I just don’t feel like I have much standing to say, you know, underage drinking, wag finger, bell of shame, don’t do it, kids.”

“I think you have exactly that standing,” Rhodey says, off Tony’s glass. “Kids make bad decisions, Tony. That’s why adults exist.”

“And I’m the adult,” Tony says, “in this scenario?” 

Rhodey rolls his eyes. “You know damn well you are.”

“I pictured myself as more sort of the cool uncle,” Tony says, “like, you can’t talk about this with your parents because they’ll have a fit, so come to me, I’m the adult who won’t throw a fit but also will try to make sure you get out of it okay.” 

“My parents never liked that uncle,” Rhodey says. “What do you think his parents will think about you?”

“His parents are both dead,” Tony says. He downs the rest of his bourbon.

“Ah,” Rhodey says.

“Touche,” Tony says.


	3. Chapter 3

 The residue of this conversation floats around like a cloud in Tony’s gut for about a week and slowly congeals into the resolution to have some sort of Mentorly Talk with the kid about the Evils Of Demon Liquor. A powerpoint, Tony thinks. It’ll be a powerpoint with animated transitions, so he can hang onto his cool uncle status. Then: animated Powerpoint transitions, Tony? That’s what’s going to keep you _cool_?

He keeps resolving that he’s going to stop drinking. Sometimes he will think to himself, I’ve been very good today, see? I don’t need alcohol, and then realize that he’s holding a beer in his hand.

When he drinks the powerpoint in his mind gets more and more elaborate. The speech he will deliver gets more and more stirring and his logic becomes more and more convincing. If he drinks just the right way with just the right intervals of snacking and conversation with other human beings he can even avoid thinking about the text Peter sent the morning after, worrying he’d said something that he shouldn’t have said, something _inappropriate_. (If he isn’t careful, though, he thinks about it maybe more than he should. What could Peter possibly say that would be inappropriate? he thinks. Then, don’t answer that. Probably, he thinks, Peter is worried he said something critical or impolite or ungrammatical. Peter always worries about things like that. He apologizes for capitalization, for Pete’s sake. But then Tony thinks, Peter’s a kid, but he’s not naïve, and he knows he called me drunk at two in the morning, so maybe the thing he is worried he said is something _different_. This idea is like a seam in a shirt that won’t let it be ironed satisfactorily; he can push it one way or the other but the shape is always a little wrong. His thoughts bunch up around it. It seems like another Worrisome Side Effect of Alcohol that he can find a way to bring up, maturely, responsibly: _I know you were worried you might have said something else to me,_ he’ll say. _And that’s just another reason that alcohol is bad for you, because we all think a lot of things we don’t mean to say out loud, and it makes us forget why we never meant to say them out loud, it takes away our filter,_ but he can picture Peter’s eye-roll, _I know how much you value filters, Mr. Stark_ and he will have to say, _That’s what I’m trying to tell you, I’m wrong about everything.)_

One evening he gets particularly drunk after a big reception and the speech seems to click perfectly together in his mind like a new suit falling into place. He pushes the button to call Peter before any of the various alarms and sirens in his head that should say things like, “It’s two am!” and “You’re extremely drunk!” can start going off.

“H-hello?” Peter says, it sounds like he was asleep. 

“Were you asleep?” Tony asks. “Sorry.” 

“Is everything okay?”

Tony takes a deep breath. “Everything,” he says, trying to hold onto the cloud of the speech, “is not okay, young man. Everything is far from okay. Young man.” So far, he thinks, so good.

“Are you… drunk?” Peter asks. 

Tony swallows. “Yes,” he says. “And that is just the point! That is just the point, Peter!”

“You sound really drunk,” Peter says. 

“That is the point!” Tony tries again. “That is the point I’m trying to get you to see.”

“Uh huh,” Peter says.

“You don’t need this,” Tony says. He burps. Gestures vaguely. “Any of this. You are better than this, Peter, do you hear me?”

“Are you okay?”

 “No!” Tony says. “That’s what I’m trying to explain to you.”

“How can I help?” Peter says.

“You don’t need to help,” Tony says. “You just need to – not be like this.” He feels as if he’s getting derailed. “Just be yourself,” he tries, “don’t try to be – me, or anything like me, because I – I am a terrible person to be 90, 98 percent of the time, and you’re wonderful, so it would be a retrograde movement.” 

“A _retrograde movement_ ,” Peter says. “Is that astrology, Mr. Stark?”

“You little shit,” Tony says, “you know what I’m trying to say. I’m sorry. You’re not a little shit. I’m. I’m the shit. I’m the big shit.” Get off the phone, Tony, he thinks. “Do you see what I’m trying to say?”

“Don’t be you,” Peter says. “Because you’re, quote, the big shit.”

“It’s not funny,” Tony says. 

“It is a little,” Peter says. Tony thinks he can hear him suppressing a giggle. “I think you should drink some water, Mr. Stark. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“I’ve given up on tomorrow as a concept,” Tony says. He is aware that he is babbling, that he is maybe not saying the right things. “Fuck tomorrow me. He’s dead to me. I’m sorry. But do you see what I’m trying to say? This – you don’t want this. You don’t want this, Peter. You are one of the only good and beautiful things in this entire world and I am a mess, and – you don’t need to be more like me, you are perfect, and I ruin everything, and if having me in your life made you _worse_ I would never forgive myself.”

“Um,” Peter says, “no, Mr. Stark, don’t worry about that.” 

“There was supposed to be a powerpoint,” Tony says. “This was all supposed to be a powerpoint. Now I’m screwing everything up, aren’t I?”

“Hey,” Peter says. “Get some sleep, okay? Are you somewhere you can lie down?”

“I can lie down anywhere,” Tony says. “I’m Tony Stark.”

“I know that,” Peter says. “But, like, are you – indoors?”

“I’m fine,” Tony says. “I mean I’m not, but I’m. Indoors. Yes. On a sofa.” He makes an effort to pull himself together.

“The one in your lab?” Peter asks.

“Penthouse.” Tony pulls one of the cushions under him. “So let this be a lesson to you,” he concludes, grandiosely. “Young man.” 

Peter laughs. It becomes a yawn. “Good night, Mr. Stark.”

“Good night, Peter,” Tony says. “Pleasant dreams.”

“Good night.”

“Sleep tight,” Tony says. He doesn’t hang up first; Peter does. For a second he stares at the phone and wonders how the call was so long. Then he’s out.


	4. Chapter 4

 In the morning his phone buzzes with a text from Peter. The buzz is like a drill going through his skull. He almost chucks the phone across the room.

“how are you doing mr. stark?”

He sends back an emoji zombie.

“you hearing the parade yet?”

“middle finger emoji” Tony types, then erases.  

“are you still on the sofa?”

“haven’t moved”

“stay put” Peter types.

“kid,” Tony types, “I’ve had hangovers before, I can deal with it. I have resources at my disposal.”

“too late,” Peter types.

Tony hears a tap on the window. When he looks out there’s – Spiderman, perched on the ledge, with a plastic Rite Aid bag.

“Friday,” Tony groans, sinking further into the couch, “open south window.”

The glass rolls up and admits Peter. “Wow,” Peter says. “So cool.”

He drops in, rolls gracefully over to the couch, hands Tony the bag. “Here,” he says. “Motrin. Crackers. Pedialyte Senior.”

“Thanks,” Tony says. He takes the bag. Peter has actually written SENIOR on the Pedialyte bottle with a Sharpie. For the first time since waking up, he actually feels sick to his stomach. He shuts his eyes. “I’m not going to be good company,” he says. “Consider me a living breathing moral illustration. Insofar as I am living and breathing.”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says, “don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the moral lessons, and the concern, but – I want you to take care of yourself.”

Tony groans.

“So, like, that’s why I’m here,” Peter says. It sounds a little rehearsed. Whenever Peter speaks in an uninterrupted sentence Tony wonders if he’s rehearsed it. “To make sure you do that.”

“Kid,” Tony says, “I have—robots and AIs and an entire staff and a cabinet secretary whose jobs are really nothing else but to take care of me.”

“Well,” Peter says, cheerily. “They are doing a great job.”

Tony shuts his eyes. “I don’t think this is a good use of your time, Mr. Parker.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Peter says, “thanks, Mr. Stark.”

Tony rolls over. Thor’s hammer, or some non-trademarked hammer, is banging furiously away at the inside of his skull. He unscrews the cap of the Motrin, swallows two dry. “I will reimburse you for this, by the way,” he says. “I hope you kept the receipt. This is an irresponsible use of your limited funds.”

“Eat your crackers,” Peter says.

Through the fog of his headache, as he sips the Pedialyte and tries a dry mouthful of crackers, Tony is aware of a thought blundering slowly towards the forefront of his mind, namely: he knows he called Peter last night. At two in the morning. He does not remember what he said. Might this, the thought asks, delicately, be a problem?

“I was pretty out of it last night, huh,” Tony says, as casually as he can.

Peter laughs. “You were,” he says. “You called yourself the big shit. You said,” He mimics. “Let this be a lesson to you, young man.”

“Is that how I sound to you?”

“Kind of?” Peter says. “You had a lot of lessons to impart. You were very complimentary.”

“Oh,” Tony says, the most neutral “oh” he can possibly manage. He remembers looking at the phone screen and wondering why the call was so long. He remembers – Peter asking if he were indoors. “Complimentary. Like an airplane beverage.”

“Ha,” Peter says. He cocks his head to one side. “Funny.”

“I’m known for my humor,” Tony says. He doesn’t even feel that hungover any longer; every sick feeling is concentrated in the pit of his stomach, is starting to be terrified of what he is going to hear when he replays the call. “Thanks for the care package, Spidey. Now, skedaddle.”

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” Peter says. “And I brought some homework, or I thought maybe I could check out the lab?”

“Yes, by all means,” Tony says, “check out the lab!” He is both relieved and – disappointed, although there is no reason to be disappointed. He manages an approximation of a chuckle.  “Now the real motivation emerges. Knock yourself out, kid. Friday, give Mr. Parker access.” He shuts his eyes again.

Peter pauses on his way across the room. Tony can feel him waiting there. It seems like he’s waiting for Tony to open his eyes. Finally Tony does. “Are you okay?” Peter asks.

Tony looks at him. “No?” he says. “But it’s not your problem, kid.”

 

**

 

When Peter is gone he asks Friday to replay the recording. There’s nothing worse than hearing your own recorded voice, and this is even more mortifying than usual. He’s a mess, repeating himself, slurring his words, and – he is indeed very complimentary. _You are one of the only good and beautiful things in this entire world_ , his recorded voice says, with a pathetic intensity, _and I am a mess, and – you don’t need to be more like me, you are perfect, and I ruin everything._

Yes, he thinks, you do. And then he thinks, but it could have been worse, couldn’t it? When you thought of all the things you might have said to him, you pictured something worse, didn’t you? He plays it over, halts on Peter’s voice saying, “Um, no, Mr. Stark, don’t worry about that.” Wonders what the pauses and inflections mean. Peter is an open book, most of the time, but sometimes the handwriting in the book is illegible.

Don’t worry about that, he thinks. His head feels mildly better; a smaller hammer.


	5. Chapter 5

“Do you have Venmo?” he texts Peter, the next day. “I’m serious about compensating you for that care package.”

“No,” Peter types back.

“No you don’t have it or no you don’t want to be compensated.” 

Peter doesn’t answer. Tony goes on Venmo and searches for him, finds him. Sends the cost of a bottle of Motrin, some Pedialyte, and a box of crackers. When he next checks his phone, Peter has sent him the same amount back with a NO and an emoji robot. Tony sends it again, with no emoji, to convey sternness and resolution. The money comes back again, this time with a cluster of lions.

“Is that supposed to be your pride?” Tony types. 

“yup.”

“Very funny.” 

“Mr. Stark im very serious about not letting you pay for this,” Peter types, then, “I worry about you.”

“you’ve just said two equally ridiculous things,” Tony says.

“have i?” Peter says. 

“yes,” Tony says. “you can’t afford it and I can”

Peter Parker is typing. Peter Parker has entered text. Tony waits. 

“Mr. Stark,” the text from Peter starts, “I can afford to get literally THREE items at RiteAid, stop treating May and I like we are paupers” and then “sorry if that was harsh” and then “but I am serious and I wish you would not act like you can just overrule me” 

“whoa” Tony types. He hits the call button; it will be easier. “Peter,” he says, “stop typing. I’m not trying to. I –” He gestures vaguely. “Money’s a very odd thing.”

Peter laughs softly, knowingly, with a different edge. “Yeah,” he says.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Peter says, “actually.”

“Zero reflection on your quality as a human being,” Tony starts. “It’s completely arbitrary, who has it, who doesn’t—”

Peter makes a frustrated noise. “Mr. Stark,” he says, “all due respect, but I understand this actually like, really well, maybe even better than you do, so can you please stop telling me. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“But you get that I’m just trying to help, right?” Tony says. “It just seemed, I don’t know, logical. You need it. I have it. So don’t waste yours when I’m happy to give it to you.”

“That’s not the point,” Peter says.

“Then what is the point?” Tony says.

Peter sounds almost choked up. “When people try to be nice to you, do you always just, like, _pay_ them?”

“Actually,” Tony says, dry, “yes. Why, is that wrong?”

“No offense, Mr. Stark, but that’s really sad.”

“It’s working out for me so far,” Tony says. It’s literally impossible to not think about the wreckage of his relationship with Pepper when he has to contemplate the question of whether it is possible to sever someone’s affection for you from the fact that they have spent decades accepting your money. So, he thinks about it. He swishes the drink around in front of him, tries to crack wise. “In fact, I think Pepper might still be on payroll, so – ”

“I’m sorry,” Peter says. “I didn’t mean that—"

“You have nothing to apologize for, kid,” Tony says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into –” he gestures vaguely “—all my bullshit. Bull stuff.”

“Also I wish you wouldn’t call me that all the time.”

“What?”

“Kid,” Peter says.

“Boy,” Tony says, “you must _hate_ ‘Casablanca.’” The joke leaves his mouth before he can think it all the way through; it’s a solid joke, he thinks, therefore worth saying. He hopes Peter won’t think too much about it. He clears his throat. “How’s this: Thank you for the care package, Mr. Parker.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Not hard at all, Boy Wonder,” Tony says. He hangs up before Peter can say anything else.

 

**

 

The outcome of this conversation should not, adamantly _not_ , be to make him think, _what is some sort of extravagant gift I can bestow on Parker that he cannot refuse and that will show him the genuineness of my regard?_ but of course that is what the outcome turns out to be.

A suit, Tony thinks. A new one, maybe as an end-of-the-school-year present. 

He is toodling with some schematics a few nights later when his phone buzzes. Peter. It's a picture of him giving a big thumbs-up in front of a computer screen displaying “The End” in a curlicue font over a black-and-white map of Africa, and at first Tony doesn’t realize what it’s supposed to be.

“just watched Casablanca!” Peter texts. “thank you for the recommendation!”

Fuck, Tony thinks. Trust Peter to over-think an offhand joke. Trust Peter to go and do the reading.

“nice to see a movie from your era” Peter adds.

“excuse me,” Tony texts, “rude, that is a joke for Steve Rogers”

“but seriously it was really good”

 “Good,” Tony types, neutrally, “I'm glad I could help broaden your horizons beyond cartoons and web series.”

“ _web_ series,” Peter sends back, “I see what you did there, Mr. Stark”

“wasn’t intentional, kid,” Tony types. He deletes the last word before he sends it.  

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

The next time Tony calls him it's a video-call in the middle of the day. At a reasonable hour. Just to check in.

“Just checking in,” he says.

“Oh!” Peter says, lighting up, “hi, Mr. Stark, are you busy? This is actually kind of  _perfect_  timing! I need expert help!”

“You need help?” Tony asks. He scans Peter's surroundings. “You appear to be in a mall, am I right? What danger is there in a mall? Are the cashiers being cruel at Limited Too?”

“I think that was intended to be a crack about my age,” Peter says, “but actually it just shows  _your_ age because I literally did not understand the reference.”

“Sorry,” Tony says. “Hot Topic?”

“Better,” Peter says, “but not really my style, Mr. Stark.”

“Don’t they have those – science joke t-shirts you’re always sporting?”

“How many decades has it been since you were in a mall?” Peter asks.

Tony considers. “It is possible I’ve literally never been in a mall,” he says. “The teens in my day were very jazzed about them but I never saw the appeal.”

“Tony Stark, too cool for malls,” Peter says.

“Why are you in a mall?” Tony asks.

“I need to wear something to prom,” Peter says, “only my old tux doesn’t fit, since.” He gestures at himself. It’s just the tiniest bit cocky.

“Wow,” Tony says, dead-pan, “Careful, you’re losing the audience. Oh no, my clothes don’t fit, I’m too  _buff_ now. How are we supposed to relate?”

“I’m relatable,” Peter says, defensive. “And May is busy but she gave me the credit card -- and I was going to bring Ned but he canceled and also I don’t know if he knows what is a good suit, but you  _definitely_ know suits, you are, like, a suit expert.”

“If this turns into you wearing the Mark 42 to your Enchantment Under The Sea bash--”

“No,” Peter says, blinking exasperatedly, “you know what I mean, you know how to, like, look good in a suit. I’ve tried on, like, eight, and I think I look sort of the same in all of them, and I want to look  _good_.”

“Kid,” Tony says, “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you’re going to achieve Tony Stark-level effects with something you get at Nordstrom Rack.”

“That store does still exist!” Peter says. “But is not where I am!”

“Neiman Marcus?”

“I have a budget,” Peter says. “I just – can you tell me if any of these is, like, better?”

“How many suits are we talking?” Tony says. “Low double digits?”

“High single digits?”

Tony rubs his temples. “Let’s narrow this down,” he says. “Are these all tuxes?”

“I googled this,” Peter says, “and they say you can also wear a classic dark suit?”

“Okay,” Tony says, “show me the options so I can help narrow them down, and then you can send me pictures of the finalists?”

“Sure, Mr. Stark!” Peter says. “Okay, hold on.” He turns the camera around; they move towards a dressing room where there are eight different suits strung somewhat haphazardly on hangers.  

“Let me see the contenders.”

Peter points the phone at them. 

“One of these is green,” Tony says. “Was it green originally or did you say something to anger it?”

“Is that bad?” Peter says. “I thought it might – bring out my eyes.”

“Your eyes are brown,” Tony says.

“Also it was extra on sale.”

“I wonder why,” Tony says. “Next.” Peter points the phone. “Brown. No.”

“But my eyes—”

“Is the prom ‘Godfather’ themed?”

“No. The theme is Big Tent,” Peter says. “The committee wanted to be welcoming to lots of themes. And also it's literally in a big tent." 

Tony elects not to respond to this. He scans the other suits. There’s a charcoal grey one he thinks looks promising, and a blue one, and three tuxedos he can’t really distinguish. “Hold those up.” One of them has enormously wide lapels. “No.”

“The salesman said it was a classic look.” 

Tony emits an audible sigh.

“Is it not a classic look, Mr. Stark?”

“You could land a quinjet on those lapels.”

“Okay,” Peter says, “so I take it we have narrowed it down to these four?”

“Ditch the blue one,” Tony says. “And, wait, does that one have tails?”

“Are tails not good?”

“Is the theme of the prom 19th century waiters?”

“Get a new joke structure, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, “I have already told you the theme.”

“Careful,” Tony says, “don’t bite the hand that is saving you from your apparently terrible taste in suits.” He sighs. “I should have known given that onesie.”

“My onesie was great,” Peter says, “it was functional, yet elegant – I mean not compared to your Spidey suit, obviously, yours is like—” he mimes his mind being blown “—but still, it had its merits.”

“These three,” Tony says.

“Okay,” Peter says. “Hold for photos.”

He hangs up. The first picture that arrives is a mirror-selfie of Peter in the tuxedo. Tony had guessed it would be too wide in the shoulders. It, surprisingly, isn’t. It clings tightly around the shoulders and then kind of loses interest around Peter’s waist. It looks pretty good, all things considered. Tony guesses Peter could get it tailored.

“Valid contender, might need tailoring,” Tony texts. “Next?”

The next one is the other black one.

“How did I not notice this was double-breasted?” Tony sends.

“Bad?”

“No,” Tony says. And the thing is, it isn’t. Peter’s pulling it off, somehow; it doesn’t make him look boxy. Tony’s one complaint is that because it’s black it gives off a vaguely waiter-like vibe. But, all things considered, not a bad-looking waiter. “You look just a tiny bit like a waiter,” Tony says. “But not in a bad way, necessarily. Back?”

Peter sends another picture. The pants fit  _right_. “It looks good from the back,” he types. He looks at the sentence. Well, there’s no other way of conveying that sentiment, he thinks, so he sends it.

“I feel like I can do better than ‘waiter, but not in a bad way,’” Peter texts back.

“Next,” Tony texts.

The next one is the charcoal one. This might be it, Tony thinks. It fits better; Peter fills out the shoulders and the waist is narrower. He’s wearing it, not vice versa. The suit seems aware that it’s showcasing Peter’s body. He looks taller. He looks very grown-up. Which makes sense, Tony thinks, his body suddenly grew up and left him stranded there in high-school. Yes, high school! His brain thinks. High school! High school! A mental plane flies over lettering the words “high school” in the air with its exhaust.

“Looking sharp, Mr. Parker,” Tony types. “You’re wearing that suit, it’s not wearing you.”

“My aunt says that!” Peter texts back. “Here’s the back.” The back looks good, too. The pants have clearly been folded for a long time and there’s a weird crease down them, but it will more than serve.

“If you get that, iron those pants,” Tony sends.

“okay,” Peter sends back, way too quickly, “IRON MAN!!!”

“Okay, laugh it up,” Tony texts.

“Which one should I get?” Peter texts.

“Up to you,” Tony sends. “But good news: even your terrible sartorial taste cannot keep you from rocking a suit, kid.”

“Great, thanks, Mr. Stark. I will get the green one!”

Tony tries to find the right emoji response. Finally he sends a picture of himself with arms folded making a disappointed-looking face.

“Kidding,” Peter sends back, then another picture of himself in the third suit, pointing at camera, trying to look James Bond-y, Tony thinks, and kind of succeeding.

“Last one was your favorite, right?”

“I liked you in the third one,” Tony texts. “But you can't go very wrong.” 

“Thanks!!"

“Okay,” Tony sends back, “good talk, ball’s in your court now. Go get suited up!” 

“ha ha. but seriously thank you Mr. Stark, that was a big help”

He puts the phone down.

 

Good, he thinks, mentoring achievement unlocked!

Then, he thinks, he asked if he looked good in those suits and you told him.

He didn’t ask if he looked  _hot_ in those suits, Tony thinks. He didn’t ask, do I look  _fuckable_.

But you told him, didn’t you.

_Looking sharp, Mr. Parker._

Come on, Tony thinks. Come on. Cut me some slack. This is, like, paternal.

 _Oh, yeah. Super paternal_ , the voice says.  _Turn around, let me see it from the back._

He needed help and I helped him, Tony thinks, it’s not like I was sitting there ogling him. I defy you to think of a more decent way this interaction could have gone. You have to see a suit from all angles. 

It's early, but he pours himself a drink anyway, tips it back, quickly.

The point is that there was nothing inappropriate in this exchange, he thinks. He scrolls back through the pictures just to prove this point. Peter with a look of concentration in the first tux. Peter in the second tux, smiling at his reflection. Peter from behind. Peter in the third suit, the best one, looking kind of cocky; the rear view. Peter James Bond-ing into the camera, trying to look dapper and debonair and still looking so  _young_ , even if the suit is doing its best to announce that he’s kind of  _cut_.

 _I_ _liked you in the third one_ _._

 _You could have phrased that better,_ he thinks. You could have said, "third one was my favorite!" (Is that better?) Or, "a lot of good options!" or a simple thumbs-up, thumbs-down. Or nothing. But you said  _I._ You said  _I liked you in the third one_. 

That's not fair, he thinks. That's just a normal way of phrasing the idea that this suit is the best of the options. That's all. 

What was it Peter had prefaced the ask with?  _You know how to look good in suits._

So maybe he’s doing this on purpose, Tony thinks. And you’re letting him do it. When he said that to you, you should have put a stop to it. _No, I don’t think so, Peter, I don’t know what the kids are wearing, I think you'd better ask your friend._

But no! Tony thinks, he’s not doing this on purpose, he had no way of knowing I would call, it wasn’t  _plotted_. No one’s doing anything. You're helping the kid out. You want his prom to be a success.

You want his  _prom_  to be a success, the voice mocks.  You’re invested in his  _prom_  now? So soon you’ll ask, oh, do you have a date to prom, do you need any  _pointers_ , and that’ll be fine, won’t it?

Shut up, he thinks. Shut up shut up and what if I do? That’s what adults do! That’s mentoring!

He refills the glass. You’re just freaking out. This is – this is what it is like to be a responsible adult. You help with things like prom and shopping _and – drinking?_ And so what if he says you look good in suits? You do. You’re Tony Stark. You’re, like, the cool uncle.

Okay, a new thought says, then delete the pictures, Tony.

But the thought of deleting them makes something go cold in his stomach. Deleting them would be admitting that there’s something wrong in having them. And there’s nothing wrong. Anyone could read this exchange and see just how exactly not-wrong it is, because it… isn’t wrong. He could let Rhodey read these texts right now. He could call Rhodey over and just hand him the phone and say, read this, this is fine, right?

_I liked you in the third one._

The feeling in his stomach intensifies.  _No_ , he thinks.  _Because you have to ask, you have to say, hey, I’m texting this kid, this teenager, am I being inappropriate? Do I come off as flirty?_

But you don’t. Obviously.

_Looking sharp, Mr. Parker._

But you aren’t  _sure_. But you think you have to ask.

It’s fine, Tony thinks. This is fine. He must make a noise, or something, because Dum-E swivels in his direction. “What are you looking at?” he says.

So you’ll just have these pictures in your phone of this teenager trying on suits for you. Just, sitting there.

It’s not like I’m going to look at them.

You’re looking at them now.

I’m looking at them to prove that there’s nothing weird about them. I’m not a creep. This is very fucked up, mind, that you have even led me down this road, he thinks. This is disgusting, that you would even think this of me. 

Are you going to look at them again? he thinks.

No, he thinks. That would be weird. But there’s nothing wrong with them. With any of this. Deleting them would be an admission that something is wrong. But there's nothing wrong.

But just having them there? Is  _fine_ , Tony thinks. It’s fine.

He finishes the second drink, pours a third. Fine. 


	7. Chapter 7

The next time his phone rings after midnight it’s Peter’s prom night. He debates letting it go to voicemail. The debate is brief and resolved in the negative.

“Hi,” he says.

“ _Hi_ ,” Peter says. His voice sounds loose and relaxed. Sometimes Tony forgets how tightly wound the kid generally is. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Tony says.

Peter giggles. “Hello,” he says.

“You’re a riveting conversationalist, kid,” Tony says. “How’s prom?”

“It’s,” Peter says. “Prom.”

“How long have you been workshopping this material?” Tony asks. “It’s killer.”

“Are you doing something exciting?” Peter asks.

Tony looks around. He’s in the lab. He’s tinkering with some adjustments to Peter’s suit as kind of a vaguely end-of-school-year present. His flask is nearly empty. “Talking to you,” Tony says.

“Talking to me isn’t exciting,” Peter scoffs. “I’m in high school. You’re Tony Stark.”

“Yes,” Tony agrees. “Three points to Gryffindor.”

 “Ooh,” Peter says, “a _millennial reference_! I’m honored, Mr. Stark.” He giggles. “Not Ravenclaw, though?”

“There’s other ones?” Tony asks. 

“There’s Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff and Slytherin.”

“Oh,” Tony says. “Which are you?”

“ _I_ think Ravenclaw,” Peter says, “but I get Hufflepuff a lot.”

“These are all nonsense syllables to me,” Tony says. 

“You’re Slytherin, probably.”

“Are you insulting me?” Tony asks. “Friday, google Slytherin, I think I’m being insulted.” 

“Good people can be Slytherins,” Peter says, voice rising, “there’s nothing inherently wrong with it.”

“Did you put me in the villain house, Parker?” Tony says.

“Actually, the verb is sort, not put—” Peter starts to say, and then Tony hears sort of a scuffle for the phone and a female voice saying “Okay, Peter, who are you drunk-dialing?” and Peter saying, “Hey! Hey give it back! Hey that’s my—” 

“Hello?” Tony says, he’s strangely aware of how his own voice sounds, how deep it is, how it’s clearly an adult man’s voice. He’s suddenly aware of how this might look.

“Oh my God, Peter, did you drunk-dial TONY STARK?” the voice shrieks, and Tony hears a sound like the phone being dropped, and then the call ends.

He doesn’t call back. He just stands there. He empties the flask. This will be a funny story, he thinks, years down the line. Hey, Peter’s friends will say, remember that time you drunk-dialed Tony Stark? and they will all laugh and prod Peter, maybe it will come up in a toast at his wedding, or something, and Tony thinks, there is no shame in drunk-dialing Tony Stark, but – you answered, Tony. You made a millennial reference – is Peter even a millennial? He might be the generation behind that. You would have stayed on the phone with a drunk teenager.

That sounds worse than it is, he thinks. Then: does it? He hears Rhodey’s voice again _, Kids make bad decisions, Tony. That’s why adults exist._

“And I’m the adult, in this scenario,” he says. To the lab, out loud. It feels theatrical.

His phone rings again. He lets it go to voicemail, this time. But listens to the voicemail the second it appears in his inbox, naturally. It’s the same female voice from before, saying, “Hey Mr. Tony Stark, just wanted to let you know that you are still a part of the military industrial complex,” and then Peter’s voice saying, “give me that,” then, “Sorry, Mr. Stark,” then a male voice saying, “Wait, can _I_ get Iron Man’s number?” and then the message ends.

“drink some water,” he texts Peter; he waits an hour before sending it. Not because he doesn’t want Peter’s friends to see it. Not that there’d be anything wrong in their seeing it; it’s the kind of thing a responsible adult would say.

He gets a text back almost instantly. “sorry my friends are the worst,” Peter types.

“they sounded fun,” Tony types. He types, “were they impressed that you called me,” and then he deletes it without sending.

“they were impressed i had your number,” Peter sends.

“do I need to change it now?” Tony asks. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter types.

“no no I mean,” Tony types, maybe too quickly, “I thought you might have given it to that friend of yours.” 

“oh ha,” Peter types, then, “so you’re not mad at me?” 

“why would I be mad at you?” Tony types.

“because I sorted you into Slytherin,” Peter types, followed by a snake emoji.

 “I don’t know what that means,” Tony types.

“educate yourself,” Peter types.

“drink some water,” Tony types. “then go to sleep. Or don’t. it’s prom night. Live! Just be safe and don’t do anything I would or wouldn’t do.”

“Gray area,” Peter types. “got it.” 

Then it shows Peter typing, and then nothing sends, and then it shows him typing, and then nothing sends.

“Spit it out, kid,” Tony types. 

“can I call you?” Peter types.

Tony stares at it. He doesn’t know why his pulse is suddenly going like that. He feels a nervous hot-cold-hot-cold churning in his stomach. 

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he types, then erases. “what for?” he types, then erases. Then, “if the only thing you’re going to do is call me, go to bed.” That seems reasonable. He sends it.

 “I’m in bed,” Peter types back.

“Good,” Tony types. 

“Not mine though,” Peter types. “the guest bed in Ned’s parents’ basement.”

Tony has no idea why Peter thinks this information is relevant to him.

“good,” Tony types, “well, whatever bed you’re in, sleep tight, Peter Parker.”

Peter types something. Peter doesn’t send it. He types something else. Doesn’t send it. There’s something menacing about the dots that show him typing, the things that Tony is supplying to fill those blanks. He is suddenly terrified that before he can type anything else the words “i wish i were in yours” will appear on his screen and he won’t be able to unsee them. This is you, he thinks, rationally, to himself. This is you filling in the blanks, not him. But he’s not sure he’s wrong.

“peter put down the phone” he types, “good night peter. Drink water.”

 He slams the phone down. His pulse is pounding. His phone buzzes with a text and he doesn’t look at it while he refills the flask, doesn’t look at it while he take a long sip. He looks at it when the whiskey is burning its way down his throat. It’s not what he thought. It’s still bad. “what did you think I was going to say?” Peter has asked.

“something you’d regret,” Tony types, then erases, then types, “I don’t know, but it’s almost 2 am and you’ve had a few, correct?” 

“correct” Peter sends. Then, “are you on the couch again?”

“no,” Tony types, “lab, why?” 

“i like being able to picture where you are,” Peter sends.

 _Tony_ , he thinks, _stop_. But then he thinks, stop _here?_ Not here. They’re on a weird footing now and he can’t leave it here, he has to lead it back to somewhere safer. “I do that too,” he sends.

“you’ve never seen Ned’s parents basement,” Peter sends. “but it’s nice”

“i’m sure it is”

“I could send you a picture”

“please don’t” Tony types. Put down the phone, Tony, he thinks.

“i could describe it for you verbally”

“peter,” Tony types, “go to sleep!” He wonders if the exclamation point sounds like pleading. 

“I can’t sleep” Peter sends, then “it’s about 14 by 10 feet with one of those big circular ceiling lights with a dome over it, and there are like twenty-five cardboard boxes full of stored items on one side and on the other side are books”

“you’re going to send me 1000 words of description aren’t you”

“the bed is in the middle of the room. It’s not actually a bed, it’s a pull-out couch but it’s way bigger than my bed at home. but the sheets are really scratchy and there’s only one pillow”

“that’s too few pillows,” Tony types, he looks hard at it; it’s somehow both the least and most appropriate thing he can think of to say. “four is the minimum civilized number”

“I only have two at home”

“I guess sometimes I forget twin beds exist” Tony types.

“how many pillows do you have” Peter types.

“I’ve lost count” Tony writes. “my bed’s so big I think it eats them." 

“wow," Peter sends. 

You’re reeling it back in, are you? You’re going to sit here texting this teenager about how much better your bed is than the one he’s sleeping in? It wasn’t supposed to be about that, Tony thinks. It’s not like that. That sounds _bad_ and that’s not what I’m doing. Neither of us is doing that. Are you not, the voice says.

“I’m not,” he says, out loud.

Peter is typing. Tony doesn’t like what his mind is coming up with to fill in the blanks. "what happened to that 1000 word description” he types, finally, and his finger sends it.

“working on it,” Peter sends back, immediately. “there is a comforter but it’s hot so I folded it up and put it on a chair. there is a chair in the corner by the bookcases. An armchair. there’s a nightlight plugged in and an old-timey alarm clock with the red flashing digits.”

“that’s not that old-timey,” Tony writes back. “it’s digital. I’m old enough to remember when alarm clocks had faces.”

“do you mean roosters” Peter writes. “wow you are old”

Fucking _stop_ , Tony thinks. He can’t think of a response. He refills the flask. 

 “sorry Mr. Stark,” Peter sends. “that was too far.”

“if I can dish it out I can take it” Tony sends. He debates adding, “little shit,” but erases it, then types, “back in my day we lived by firelight and awoke each morning with the crowing of the cock” but it feels like a paper-thin excuse to work the word ‘cock’ into the conversation. He deletes it. 

“See?” he says, aloud.

“Tony Stark is typing” Peter sends.

“why can’t you sleep?” Tony sends instead.

“it’s hot”  
“and everything’s sort of on overload”  
“i feel really wired”  
“i thought maybe if I drank it would help but everything’s just kind of more”  
“do you know what I mean”

“yeah,” Tony says. “I mean, I don’t have your abilities, but I can guess at the feeling.”

“i really dont think i can go to sleep,” Peter types.

“drink some hot milk,” Tony sends.

“what do you do when you can’t”

“make bad choices,” Tony sends, “or work.”

 “like now” Peter sends. Tony doesn’t think it is deliberately ambiguous, but it lands that way. “what are you making?” 

“I’m working on your suit,” Tony thinks of typing, but somehow admitting that to Peter right now feels terrifying. He puts it away, rolls over to another project. “I was working on some nanotech,” he types. 

“Really?” Peter types. “That sounds awesome! Can you show me?”

“how about a thousand word description,” Tony types back.

“ha” Peter sends. Then, “i’m serious, i want to hear about it”

“what do you want to hear?”

“everything!!!!!” Peter types.

“that’ll put you right to sleep,” Tony sends.

“have a little faith,” Peter writes back. Then, “or you could call me.”

It can’t be a worse idea, Tony thinks, maybe it’s a better idea.

“in the interest of putting you to sleep…” Tony types, and then he hits the button to call Peter. He can’t tell if it’s a good idea or not; it is like being underwater and seeing lights everywhere and not knowing which light is the surface and which light is a fish with a lantern on its head beckoning you down.


	8. Chapter 8

Peter answers immediately. 

“Hi,” he says. He sounds elated. Not tired.

 “Hello, Sleepless in Seattle,” Tony says.

“I don’t understand that reference,” Peter says. His voice is quiet, like he has to keep it down.

“It’s a Meg Ryan classic,” Tony says, “Though it may not hold up.”

“I didn’t picture you as a big Meg Ryan movies fan.”

 “It’s not my defining trait.”

“What is your defining trait?”

Tony sighs. “Grievous irresponsibility,” he says. He stretches. His neck is tight. He feels centuries old. “So, nanobots,” he says.

“I read about them,” Peter says. There’s a shifting sound on the other end of the line; he thinks it’s Peter getting comfortable. He almost asks. “Those are the things that are going to turn on us all and try to destroy the planet.”

“Maybe?” Tony says. “Knowing my past luck.” 

“Oh no!” Peter says. “Sorry, Mr. Stark, I didn’t mean you, I was referencing a really old book by Michael Crichton.”

“Very old,” Tony says. “An ancient text. By Michael Crichton.”

Peter chuckles. “Yup,” he says. “Sounds right.” 

Tony turns around to pull up some schematics. There’s another sound like bedsprings creaking, then again, like Peter’s trying to get comfortable and failing. “You comfortable?” Tony asks.

“No,” Peter says. Another creak.

“If this turns into you asking me to drone you a pillow—” Tony says, in a warning tone. 

“Is that an option?” Peter says. 

“Okay,” Tony says, over him, “so what I’m trying to do with these bots is build a suit that can assemble itself at a much more granular level.” He takes another swig from the flask. “Stop me if this gets too technical.” He likes the way he sounds talking about the bots; the fluid dynamics involved, the mass problems, how linked in to his AI they ought to be. He talks fluidly for a long time with expansive gestures, moving the prototypes around, interrupted by Peter making little noises of assent or curiosity or asking technical questions. 

He keeps hearing the creaking sound, the shifting noise, on Peter’s end of the line. He tries not to think about it. But then he notices it has a  _rhythm._

He asks without thinking. “Peter?”

“Yeah?” Peter asks. Tony tries to listen for the answer to his question in Peter’s voice; there’s no way he can ask the direct question that has suddenly occurred.  _Are you making poor choices_ , he could say. But then what if Peter said,  _why do you ask_ , you’d have to admit you’re a big enough narcissist to think listening to you talk about nanotechnology might be what someone got  _off_ to. Not  _someone_ , Tony thinks,  _Peter._  

“Is everything okay, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks.

“Maybe I should ask you that question,” Tony says.

The other end of the line goes absolutely still. “I’m fine,” Peter says. “Don’t stop yet.” 

“Careful what you wish for, kid,” Tony says, “I could keep at this indefinitely.” 

“Um please do,” Peter says. Is this you being a pervert, Tony thinks, who thinks you’re suddenly talking about something else. He supposes there’s a way of finding out.

“If I haven’t put you to sleep yet,” Tony says, “there’s a harder version with more math.”

The shifting sound on the other end of the line. “I think I could handle something harder,” Peter says, “Mr. Stark.”

Fuck, Tony thinks. What he should do now is say, I notice what you’re doing, and you need to stop. Unless Peter really just wants more difficult math. That is possible. It would help if he could remember any math right now. He suddenly can’t remember any math. He can hear Peter’s breathing through the phone.

“You’re breathing really hard,” Peter says, suddenly. “I can hear you.”

“Kid,” Tony says. He wants to ask. He wants to say, are you doing what I think you’re doing. But then he’d know. Does he want to know. He can’t know. What is the adult thing to do, in this scenario? Is it to say, I think I know what you’re doing, and we’re never going to speak of this again, but it’s incredibly inappropriate. Is it to say nothing? And what is the adult thing to feel about this? It should be a kind of irritated indifference, Tony thinks. He tries to picture what it would be like to hear Peter's breathing hitching like that into the phone, to hear his bedsprings creaking, to feel _nothing_ about it. To be sort of annoyed. To have hung up minutes ago, to have not pushed this so far. To have not wanted to push this. 

“Are you okay, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks.

Are you? His brain asks. Are you going to tell him to stop?

Stop what? Tony thinks. Maybe this is you. Maybe this is all you.

And if it’s all you, a too-casual voice suggests, a voice he has not heard from before, as long as you are picturing this happening but are going to pretend like it’s not happening, you could – get off. He won’t know.

What the fuck, brain, he thinks back. But the voice persists. It’s probably not happening, the voice says. You’re probably imagining things. And you are definitely imagining things -- Peter on that bed in the remainder of that suit, and you know how he looked in that suit – Shut up, brain, he thinks, feebly. He won’t know, his brain suggests. No one will know. It won’t hurt him. Zero Peters will be harmed in the making of this orgasm. 

“You’re sure you can keep up?” he asks, and his voice has an edge to it he doesn’t like, half-pleading. 

“I’m  _so_ sure,” Peter says. Another creak.

“How was the suit?” Tony asks, suddenly.

“It was great,” Peter says. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.” Then there’s a stillness on Peter’s end, like Peter’s gathering his nerve for something. “But I’m not wearing it any more,” Peter says, all in a rush.

For a second, just a second, Tony stops breathing. “ _Kid_.” But it doesn’t come out how he wants it to at all. He wants it to sound stern and disappointed. It sounds  _wrecked_. It is an unmistakable admission of exactly the thought of Peter that has just been conjured up in his mind. Of exactly what that thought  _does_ to him. It would be unmistakable to someone with much worse hearing than Peter. Maybe Peter is drunk enough not to remember. He hopes so. 

He hears Peter’s indrawn breath, then a last creaking noise, one with some finality to it.

What the actual fuck, Tony, the voice in his head says.

 _I didn’t do anything_ , he thinks. _You fucking liar,_ the voice says back.

“Get some sleep, kid,” he says, after a suitable pause.

Peter doesn’t say anything on the other end. He hears another sound, an echo, sort of a quiet sigh. He could replay it later, find out exactly what noise Peter just made. He should not. He  _might_.

Fuck.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. 

“Get some sleep,” Tony says again. His voice is still uneven. “Good night, Mr. Parker.”

He hangs up.

The ‘Mr. Parker’ is the worst admission of all, he thinks. As though you can will him into being Mr. Parker, a peer, not Peter Parker, the teenager you plucked off YouTube, who just – don’t pretend you don’t know what just happened.

And you didn’t stop him. And now you’re—

He throws the flask at the wall. Then almost rips down the zipper of his jeans, shoves a hand inside. Peter doesn’t have to know.

“What harm is it going to do now?” he asks no one in particular. 

He's as good as there already. It takes no time at all. 

When he looks at the clock next it’s 4 am. Might as well make it an all-nighter, he thinks, and does.


	9. Chapter 9

Tony thinks about the word “circumlocution.” The act of speaking around something. In order to get around something without touching it, with words, or without– in order not to touch something – you must be hyperaware of the thing not being touched. The only way to be certain that you won’t brush against something is to know what it is you are trying to avoid. To properly avert your gaze you have to know exactly what you are trying not to look at.

You can’t even think it out loud, he thinks to himself. That should tell you something. You have to gussy it up in these metaphorical terms. You both know exactly what you are trying not to touch. How did you let it get this far? 

It hasn’t gotten anywhere, Tony thinks.

He thinks about the suit. The way he moves in the suit, in order to get somewhere, is not to aim at it; it is to aim away from somewhere else. Then he arrives at the point he wanted to reach without ever having directly aimed at it.

Do we need to think about this out loud, he thinks to himself, do you need to admit anything to yourself? Then, I’m not drunk enough to have this conversation. Even with myself.

 

Then, well, it wasn’t mutual. Then, no one ever said anything directly. Then, I’m not encouraging him.

So we’ll just continue pretending this isn’t a problem.

There _isn’t_ a problem, Tony thinks.

** 

Morning comes, although it does not feel like morning. He still feels as if he is underwater, the sort of waking half-drunken feeling that comes from too little sleep. His mind has scuttled as far away from the events of the previous night as possible. He is halfway through a new schematic when he notices it is noon.

He could send a drone over, he thinks. Peter could probably use a hangover remedy. But then: Peter is not the only one there, and if they see the drone they will know that Tony Stark knows where Peter slept last night. That Tony Stark thought about where Peter was sleeping last night.

Thought about. What a demure way of putting it, Tony. Thought about. As though it were a puzzle or a physics problem. As though you didn’t get off thinking about him.

As though he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t, Tony thinks, somewhat feebly. He might hope that’s what happened, but he doesn’t know. Besides. He got off thinking about me.

Yes, his mind supplies, he hates this part of his mind, because he is a teenage boy, Tony, and there is absolutely nothing wrong in his getting off to whatever the fuck he wants, but _you’re involving yourself in it_.

No, I’m not, he thinks. Okay. Let us briefly open the locked box in the back of our mind that contains the idea that we did in fact fantasize about Peter Parker. Let us just for once examine all the contents of this box. Suppose we did in fact allow ourselves to admit that this was what had happened. Suppose we admitted he is _fucking hot_ , just, objectively, the innocence and the confidence at the same time, the thought that _I could wreck him, and sometimes I think he wants me to_. So sue me, if him calling me _Mr. Stark_ in that tone doesn’t leave me entirely unmoved, doesn’t make me think _paternal_ thoughts, come on, fuck, that doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything about it, obviously. But as long as I don’t do anything, which, obviously, I would never, as long as I don’t let it leak into the mentoring side of things, is it a crime if this does it for me? Him being all stuttering innocence one second and then turning on a dime and being all vinegar and sass, and his _mind_ — 

Okay, Tony thinks, now you’re just listing reasons to jack it to Peter Parker, this isn’t quite the intention of this exercise.

He pours himself some coffee. His pulse rate is a little elevated. You could admit why, Tony, he thinks. You could admit, this is doing it for me. You could admit any of this.

No, he thinks. Besides it’s not mutual. He’s getting off and, okay, fine, say I’m getting off. But it’s not like he’s doing it for my benefit, it’s not like he thinks anything’s going to happen, even if it’s something that we’re both doing, we’re going to keep acting like we have no idea. _We’re going to keep acting like we have no idea_ , he thinks, does that sound safe to you? Does that sound like a good idea? Tony, fucking stop. Suppose the next time he calls you drunk he says any of it out loud, what are you going to do?

He’s not going to, Tony thinks.

You’re awfully confident in the restraint of this teenager, Tony. Is he even legal?

Tony very pointedly does not google this.

It’s not like this is the first time someone inappropriate has thrown themselves at you, he thinks, and you’ve been fine. (But you didn’t _want_ any of them. Admit it, you want him.)

No, Tony thinks. Not for real. He stops that thought cold. It feels good stopping it cold. It feels good knowing there are lines he won’t cross. It’s enough to nerve him to look at his phone again, send Peter a text: “holding up all right?”

“yup!” comes back almost immediately.

“sorry no drone,” Tony texts.

“I figured not,” Peter sends. “but it’s okay, we had pancakes!” A picture comes in: Peter with a plate stacked with pancakes, giving a thumbs-up. He looks like Peter, just the same as always. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Tony thinks, wincing a little at the expression. He’s wearing a t-shirt that’s too large for him and has the Hulk on it in a Marilyn Monroe wig, glowering at Katherine McPhee.

“the Hulk?” Tony texts back. “et tu, Mr. Parker?”

“sorry,” Peter texts back, “IRON MAN SMASH would not be a pun, but HULK SMASH is a GREAT pun” 

“wow,” Tony texts back. “I do in fact understand that reference, and that’s… painful” 

“thanks!!!” Peter sends. Then Peter is typing, and Peter has entered text, and Tony’s stomach starts its familiar plummet.

It is too soon to start this again, Tony thinks. He tosses the phone across the room before passing out on the couch.

 

**

 

He keeps working on the suit because to stop working on it would be to admit a kind of defeat. He adds a blood alcohol level test to it, just as a joke. 

“Send me your measurements,” he texts Parker. He types, “for totally above-board reasons” and then deletes it. Specifying that seems like begging the question.

Parker sends them immediately, doesn’t make any jokes. “Is this for what I think it is?” he types.

“Maybe,” Tony types, then, “do you think I am building a lifesize replica of you to stand in a fountain in the middle of my penthouse” but he deletes it; it doesn’t look as funny typed out.

 

**

 

“Tell me more about being a responsible adult,” Tony says to Rhodey, over a plate of penne a la vodka.

“What happened?” Rhodey asks.

“Nothing happened,” Tony says, maybe too quickly. “I just need general pointers.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Tony stresses. He eats several rapid forkfuls of the pasta, not bothering to blow on it, then has to chug wine to cool down the roof of his mouth.

“Has Spiderboy developed a drinking problem?” Rhodey asks.

“Spiderman. And no, not exactly,” Tony says. He stares at his empty wineglass. “But what if? You know I have crap impulse control. How can I teach someone else to have better impulse control?”

“By example,” Rhodey says, off the wineglass.

“That’s exactly the problem,” Tony says.

“Look,” Rhodey says, “there are some stages of life when we’re ready to be mentors, and there are some stages of life when we just – aren’t.”

“I’m, like, fifty,” Tony says, “surely I’m at the mentoring stage.”

“You’re Tony Stark,” Rhodey says. “Maybe you’re not.”

“I think I can be a good mentor,” Tony says. “I want to be a good mentor.”

“I’m sure you do,” Rhodey says. “We all want lots of things.”

“But?”

“Maybe reel it in a bit,” Rhodey suggests. “If you aren’t cutting it, Tony, if you don’t think you’re helping him, then maybe just have a normal midlife crisis instead of trying to mold the next generation of superheroes. I never really saw you as the Professor Xavier type.”

“That’s a fair point,” Tony says. “Thank you, Rhodey. How are you?”

Rhodey eats a forkful of salmon with peas, the heart-healthy option. “Enjoying adulthood,” he says.

“But sometimes I really feel like I am,” Tony says. “Helping him, that is.”

Rhodey looks at him. “You’re really invested in this,” he says.

“Yeah,” Tony says. Rhodey waits. “I don’t want to stop. I actually, I was thinking maybe we expand this quote unquote Stark Internship into a real deal, get the kid access to the lab, unleash him on the tech, give him room to grow. I’m just—I’ve never done anything like this and I don’t want to screw the pooch.”

“You’re serious.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe I could help,” Rhodey says. “We could sort of Good Cop, Bad Cop it.”

“Good cop, better cop,” Tony suggests.

“Good cop, best cop.” Rhodey waves some pasta at him. “Backup. If you think you could use it. Just to reestablish boundaries.”

“I’m good at boundaries,” Tony says.

“Tony,” Rhodey says, “you tried to get all the Avengers to live together in a building of your own design.”

“Yes,” Tony says. “What does that have to do with boundaries?”

Rhodey shakes his head. “When does this internship start?” he asks. “I’ll be there.”

 

**

First he drops off the modified suit. Peter’s not at home; he leaves the package with Aunt May. It’s wrapped so he doesn’t think she’ll snoop. Just in case, there is a decoy gift, a hideous holiday sweater with an light-up arc reactor knit into the center. It’s the most hideous thing he’s ever seen. He thinks Peter will get a kick out of it.

But he won’t be there to see it, see Peter’s face light up – literally and metaphorically -- because he is going to go off and be an adult. He is going to get drunk and laid in whichever order that happens.

When he glances at his phone there’s a missed call, he thinks Peter, but it’s a different PP, Pepper Potts. He doesn’t check it. He is putting all of that in a neat little box of its own, like it is some alien artifact that must be handled by experts; he is sealing that particular misery away to be opened later at the relevant time, like a time capsule being buried by a city at the turn of the century. He is full of metaphors for just exactly how much he is not going to think about Pepper right now.

He manages to get laid before he gets drunk. Which works fine. Is probably the right way of going about this sort of thing. He manages to wrangle a threesome. It feels oddly wholesome. They are all completely respectful; they all have a good time; everyone is a consenting adult; nobody pushes anyone’s limits; everyone gets off. It is very sexy and completely above-board; it feels like the kind of thing you could tell your parents about, if you had that sort of parents. Except that afterwards he still wants to get drunk. Or listen to a recording of a phone call.

They want to drink a wheatgrass smoothie. He pours a whole flask into it, swallows it down like it’s nothing.

He hops in the suit to see if that helps any, but then there is an incoming video call from Peter Parker.

“Hi, kid,” he says.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter says. “I got the gift! Oh my God! Mr. Stark, it’s amazing!” 

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Tony says, “I saw it and thought of you.”

“Oh,” Peter says, “you mean the sweater, but I mean the suit.”

“I know you mean the suit, kid,” Tony says, “I was joking.”

“I can’t even understand jokes right now,” Peter says, “my mind is too blown. It has – everything. I mean, _everything_ everything.”

“Not everything,” Tony says. “I’m sure I’ll think of even more things it doesn’t have. It could be lighter and more waterproof. It could have more webbing settings. It could stop bullets better. The audio could be improved.”

“It’s perfect,” Peter says. “I’m in it right now and I can vouch that it is perfect.”

“You out fighting crime?” Tony asks.

“That’s right,” Peter says, “using all 246 new features! Are you out—fighting crime yourself?”

“Not really,” Tony admits, “just dicking around in the suit.” 

“Oh,” Peter says. “Well, enjoy! I just wanted to say thank you, Mr. Stark. It’s perfect. You’re the best.”

“You deserve the best,” Tony says. “Which I’m not. But thanks.”

“Bye!” Peter says.

“Bye, kid! Go knock ‘em dead!” Tony says.

“Senseless!" Peter corrects. "Not dead!"

"Sorry," Tony says.

"Thanks for respecting my values,” Peter shouts, it sounds like he’s maybe catapulting himself off a building, and the call ends.

Tony feels better afterwards. Mentoring, he thinks. That was mentoring, and I did it, and he’s happy, out there fighting crime with his bells and whistles. I did a Good Thing. I’m not a bad person. I’m doing the right thing.

He wakes up on the couch again.

 

**

 

He and Rhodey visit Ross in DC. While he’s there, he snaps a selfie pointing at the Washington Monument, now fully repaired. “still intact!” he captions it. He sends it to Peter quickly so he won’t have time to think about it.

“Who’re you sending classy dick pics to?” Rhodey asks.

“Hey,” Tony says, “there are reasons to send people images of the Washington Monument that have nothing to do with its status as America’s most famous phallic symbol.”

Rhodes rolls his eyes.

A few minutes later a text comes in from Peter, “relieved you’re still intact.”

Tony snorts. “meant the monument,” Tony sends back. “after the rough treatment you gave it”

“I was very gntle!” Peter sends. “*gentle! no monuments were harmed”

“thought you might want to see how it was holding up”

“it is not holding up anything,” Peter sends back, “it is a stand-alone obelisk”

“groan”

Peter sends a picture of himself doing what Tony realizes must be his troll face. It just looks guileless and delighted. There’s a diagram of Spanish verbs behind him.

“Peter!!” Tony sends, “no texting during class!” He puts his phone back in his pocket and ignores the next series of buzzes.

“She like it?” Rhodey asks.

Tony flips him off.

 

**

 

The next time Peter calls him after midnight he’s actually in bed.

“What?” he says, picking up. 

“Is this a bad time?” Peter asks.

“Are you okay?” Tony asks. “Is everything okay? Have you been engaging in irresponsible behaviors?”

“No,” Peter says, “actually, no. Actually I just couldn’t sleep. Wait, did I wake you? I just sort of think of you as never being asleep.”

“I was,” Tony says.

“Asleep, like, in bed?”

“Yes,” Tony says.  

Peter inhales. “In your actual bed?”

“ _Pe_ ter,” Tony says. Fuck, he thinks. You set this trap for yourself, Tony Stark.

“How many pillows?” Peter says.

“Sheep, Peter,” Tony says. “Count sheep. You’re not supposed to telephone Tony Stark and ask him how many pillows.”

“Oh,” Peter says, “Tony Stark is talking about himself in the third person.”

“Little shit,” Tony says, without thinking. But Peter laughs, pleased.

“Yeah?”

For want of anything better to do, Tony counts them. “Seven,” Tony says. There’s a lump at the foot of the bed. “No, I lied. Eight.”

“Eight!” Peter says. “I can’t even picture how that would work.”

“Whatever size bed you’re picturing, double it,” Tony says. He settles back among the cushions.

“I’m not picturing anything, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. It sounds like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Tony ignores the invitation. “I’m going back to sleep,” he says. “Do you need anything?”

There’s a pause. “No,” Peter says.

“And you’re not drinking?” Tony says.

“No,” Peter says.

“That’s good,” Tony says.

“Are you?”

“Not literally right now,” Tony says.

“That’s good,” Peter says. “First steps.”

“Little shit,” Tony says, again. 

“You worry about _me_ , Mr. Stark,” Peter says.

“I’m the adult,” Tony says, “that’s my job.”

Peter, irritatingly, laughs. 

"Good night, Mr. Parker," Tony says. He hangs up. Sleep is a long time coming.  


	10. Chapter 10

The internship does not start when Rhodey is there. But it starts under perfectly respectable circumstances. Tony is on a billionaire golf outing when FRIDAY alerts him that Spiderman is in dire straits. He’s on a skyscraper, trying to take down some evildoer Tony curses himself for not following more closely and – his webshooter sticks. There are protocols in the suit for this but in his latest bout of hacking past Tony’s safety settings Peter’s friend must have done something to take them out, because they are not active, and Peter is about to fall.

FRIDAY has already deployed the drones but Tony takes off as fast as he can. He goes whizzing through the air. But he is too late. Peter is falling. Peter is trying to get the web-shooters to work and they are not working and Peter is falling, faster and faster, plummeting to earth, concrete rushing up. It is like something out of a bad dream.

Tony makes it there in time to see Peter manage to unstick his webshooter about a foot above the sidewalk, just as the drone swoops in beneath him, so that he is propelled up to the side of the building and safety again, and Tony takes advantage of the distraction to neutralize the evildoer on the roof with a quick pulse to the head.

He swoops down to check on Peter. “Hey,” he says, “kid.” 

“H-hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. He sounds a little spooked. “Is that you or are you remote--?”

“Yeah, kid, it’s me,” Tony says. “Come on. You’re bugging out. I know the signs.”

“I’m okay,” Peter says.

“I don’t doubt that,” Tony says, “but I’m freaked out just watching you pull that stunt so, come on, cut an old man some slack, let’s go down to ground level and just hang out there for a little bit?” 

“But the guy—” Peter starts to protest.

“I got him,” Tony says. “Or do you want to get back on the horse, web him up, gift-wrap, do your thing?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. His shoulders tense and then he’s shooting a web, pulling himself up – it holds, not that Tony is holding his breath – and he makes it to the top of the building, starts webbing the guy up.

Tony tries not to hover too much. He doesn’t entirely succeed.

“Next time pick on someone your own size!” Peter shouts, and then he lets Tony escort him down to ground level. Tony doesn’t let out his breath until Peter has emerged from an alleyway – and he is going to give himself credit for this later, he thinks, not staring, and then he feels guilty even thinking about staring – in his civilian clothes. He has Happy bring the car.

“You want to drive?” he asks, before they hop in.

Peter shakes his head. “No license.”

“Scrupulous,” Tony says, instead of any of the barbs that spring to mind _sometimes I forget you’re a child,_ “I respect it. Happy, I’ve got it. Take the afternoon off.”

He gets behind the wheel, revs the engine. Tries to think what he would have wanted someone to say. Thinks maybe the answer is _nothing_.

“Where are we going?” Peter asks.

“The compound?” Tony says. “If that’s okay, unless you’re– wait, are we playing hooky? Am I corrupting the youth?” 

“It’s summer,” Peter says. “There’s nowhere I’m supposed to be. But if we’re going to be there for a bit I’d better call May—”

“Absolutely,” Tony says, with a wave. “Call away.” If he were less used to driving with one hand maybe this would shake the car, but it doesn’t.

May doesn’t pick up. Peter leaves her a very cheery message. “Hey, May!” he says. “Everything is fine, and don’t worry, but also I am going to be home probably late for dinner. I am uh doing well and I am in a safe place and I hope your day is going well.”

“Tell her it’s an internship thing,” Tony says, sotto voce.

“It is uh an internship thing,” Peter says. “That is why I am going to be late, not because I am in danger in any way. Anyway, uh, have a good rest of shift. Larb you.” He hangs up, turns to Tony. “The larb is sort of an inside joke.”

“I gathered,” Tony says. “Pro-tip, if you want someone not to worry, don’t say, ‘everything is fine and don’t worry and I’m in a safe place.’”

“But,” Peter says. “Everything is fine and she should not worry, and I am in a safe place.”

“If you had left that message with me I would literally think you had been kidnapped,” Tony says. “And I try not to throw the word ‘literally’ around for effect. Does every one of your reassuring voicemails sound like this? Is that why your aunt always looks so tense?”

“She doesn’t always look tense,” Peter says.

“FRIDAY, see if we can drone May Parker a gift card for a massage.”

“You don’t need to give my aunt a massage, Mr. Stark.”

“Why?” Tony asks, switching lanes, “is this a money thing? Or is this a—I’ve been told by some people who don’t know what they’re talking about – boundaries, like, Charlton Heston voice, get your filthy hands off my aunt you damn dirty ape, sort of a thing?”

“It’s—” Peter sighs. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Mr. Stark.”

“What exactly do you think I am trying to do?” Tony asks. “Because honestly I’m not sure how I’m coming across.”

“Help,” Peter says. “You’re trying to help.”

“Yes,” Tony says. He switches lanes again. There’s a clear stretch. He glances over at Peter. His expression is unreadable. “What if we disguised it as, like, a free promotion?” Tony asks. “Would she go for that? Because it’s not a question of her deserving it, I mean, I just listened to that and my blood pressure climbed sixty points, so I can’t imagine—”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” Peter says.

“No,” Tony agrees.

“That’s not what I mean,” Peter says. He actually sounds choked up; how did Tony not notice this? “I mean, I don’t understand why it didn’t work, and then I don’t understand how it started working again, and I should understand.”

“Oh,” Tony says. “Oh, yeah, no, that I can help with. That is why we are headed to Stark Industries labs right now. So you can figure out what happened and stop it from happening again.”

“What if I don’t?”

“You? Not figure it out?” Tony looks over at him. “Pete, it’s just an engineering problem.”

“But what if I figure that out and fix it but then next time there’s something else I haven’t thought of—”

Tony chuckles, ruefully. “Kid, why do you think I haven’t slept since… I want to say 2008?”

“Oh no,” Peter says, putting his face in his hands, but he looks cheerier. “Is this what I’m going to become?” 

Tony reaches over and ruffles his hair. “Anyway, what’s the point of having a borderline obsessive billionaire superhero mentor with access to millions of dollars worth of lab equipment if not to figure out exactly the answer to that question? Pete, I eat this unexpected equipment malfunction shit for breakfast. I live and breathe this. Why do you think I am on suit number—”

“48,” Peter supplies, looking a little sheepish.

“See,” Tony says, “oh, god, what was I thinking, trying to start with your people problem? really this is just an engineering problem, and listen, this is not something the Hulk would be as helpful with, even if he is on your shirts. Of course Bruce, on the other hand—”

“Actually,” Peter says. Tony looks over. Peter is wearing a button-down but the pattern Tony had initially mistaken for small red dots is – iron man helmets.

“Huh,” Tony says. He gives Peter an approving nod. “Classy and understated.”

“Yes,” Peter says, “those are the first words I thought of too.” He puts his feet up on the dashboard.

“Little shit,” Tony says. But he can tell Peter’s feeling better.

They get far enough out of the city for the air to be mildly pleasant. “Okay if I lose the top?”

“What?” Peter says; his eyes go wide.

“Sun-roof,” Tony says, gesturing.

“Oh,” Peter says. “Yeah.”

Tony puts the top down. Peter shuts his eyes.

 

Tony takes a moment or two as they pull up to the compound to congratulate himself on doing exactly the right thing. This is mentoring, he thinks, triumphantly. Then, I’ve done everything right. I can do this. We’re not on a weird basis. He wants to frame this interaction, mail Rhodey a copy. See, nothing to see here.

Nothing? His mind asks.

Don’t start with me, mind, he thinks back. Not today.

 

They pull into the driveway. Tony throws someone the keys. Before they go into the lab he stops in the kitchen, starts filling a glass with ice cubes.

“Need anything before we get started?” he asks. “Gatorade? A snack? Pony ride?” He goes to the bar cart, uncorks a bottle, pours some bourbon in after the ice cubes. Peter raises an eyebrow.

“Now first off,” Tony says, admonitory, “remind me to have a conversation about this with you, young man, and second, come on, cut me some slack, I’m obviously soothing my rattled nerves.”

Peter grins. “Well,” Peter says, spreading his hands, “now that you mention it, my nerves are also rattled.”

Tony mimes slapping him upside the head. “Bad Peter,” he says. “No.”

Peter catches him by the sleeve. “I thought I was going to die.”  

“Peter,” Tony says, studying his expression, “don’t – are you manipulating me?”

Peter swallows. “I mean,” Peter says, immediately sheepish, “I did think I was going to die, but only for, like, a couple of seconds.”

“Kid,” Tony says.

“And it’s not like I haven’t felt like I was going to die _before_ ,” Peter adds, helpfully.

Tony pulls his arm away. He feels impossibly old. He knows Peter wants him to say something. He thinks maybe Peter wants him to say, it will get better, it will scab over, it will stop getting to you. Peter is looking at him. He rubs his arm, force of habit. It’s sore today. Golf was a bad idea. “Fuck it,” he says. “If you think it’ll help, but – don’t overdo it? You have a good brain. I happen to be very fond of your brain, so, don’t pummel it too hard when it’s still developing, okay? Or I am going to be crushed by guilt?”

 “You used to overdo it at my age,” Peter points out, filling his own glass with ice cubes, letting Tony pour what he hopes is not a completely inappropriate amount of brown liquid in around them, “and you’re fine.”

“Yes,” Tony says, clinking their glasses together, “fine, that’s, that’s always been most people’s go-to adjective for describing Tony Stark.” 

 “You know what I mean,” Peter says.

“Yes,” Tony says. “ ‘Fine.’ I’m drinking alone in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Rude,” Peter says. “I’m drinking with you.”

“I’m drinking alone in the middle of the afternoon with a teenager,” Tony corrects. He swishes the ice cubes around.

“So it doesn’t get easier?” Peter asks, after a pause.

Tony looks at him. “You know what I’m going to say,” he says.

“No,” Peter says. “Yeah. I was scared you might.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony says.

“It’s not your fault,” Peter says.

“But the thing is, it kind of is,” Tony says.

“No,” Peter says, firm. “I’m just glad I have you to be like, totally normal, that’s just a superhero thing, we all have that. If it were just me—”

“You might be better off,” Tony says.

“No,” Peter says. “I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t know what normal is, though,” Tony says. “This Iron Man stuff? I make it up as I go along. And now you’re here and I have to try to figure out, all the stuff I was fine with because it was _me_ , but it’s not _me_ , it’s, you, and – I don’t want to be what becomes of you.”

“You won’t,” Peter says. “But also, being you, that would not be a terrible thing, Mr. Stark. Like, I know you think it’s bad, but you’re actually awesome.” He doesn't make eye contact. 

Tony laughs, rueful. He finishes his drink.

“This can’t be a habit, okay?” he informs Peter, as sternly as he can manage. “It’s not a healthy coping mechanism. Didn’t you used to – Legos?” He gestures vaguely. “What happened to that?”

“I still do that,” Peter says, perking. “Wait, do you have Legos?”

“Possibly.” Tony fills a mug with coffee. “Come on,” he says, “let’s solve your engineering problem.”

 

**

 

They go down to the lab, get the web-shooters out. Tony scans them and throws the three-dimensional hologram up between them. They work on it for a couple of hours, or really, Peter works on it. Tony helps him interface with the AI, then takes a break, goes and sits on the couch, and creates an algorithm that will optimize their pizza order.

“Is this _the_ couch?” Peter mouths, pointing at it.

“Yes, Peter,” Tony says, cautious, “this is the couch in the lab?”

Peter smiles to himself, keeps working.

Not going to think about this, Tony keeps thinking to himself, we’re not going to worry about any of this right now, we’re not going to overthink this, we’re just going to be here for Peter, who could have died—

He goes up to get the pizza. He vastly – and, he flatters himself, charmingly – over-tips.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter shouts up after him, as he is shutting the door.

“Hold on, kid!”

“Eureka!” Peter shouts. “Eureka!”

“Eureka?” Tony calls back. “What, are you Archimedes now? If so, put a towel on!”

“I see what you did there,” Peter shouts back, “and appreciate the reference, but, no, I got it!”

Tony sprints downstairs, jostling the pizza to the bottom of the box. Peter is gesturing at the hologram, talking too fast, pointing, brain going a mile a minute. Tony picks up what he’s putting down. Something about there was a superfluous piece in the shooter mechanism that had been added for the instant-kill setting; in the course of disabling it, Peter had gotten it stuck in a position that locked shut when a certain amount of fluid had been dispensed. As Peter talks Tony hands him some squashed pizza and he takes a bite out of it, uninterrupted, keeps talking. It’s beautiful. Peter is beautiful. Anyone talking this animatedly about science would be beautiful. But also--

“So this is my fault,” Tony says, when Peter finishes.

“N-n-no, Mr. Stark!” Peter exclaims. “It is something I did.”

“If I hadn’t fucked with your suit—”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says, “you literally saved my life.”

“After I almost got you killed.”

“Absolutely not!” Peter says. “You didn’t know I was going to disable—”

Tony sighs.

“Please can this not be your fault,” Peter says, “please as a personal favor to me do not put this on yourself, okay, Mr. Stark?”

“Are you familiar with how guilt works, Peter?” Tony says. He tries to make it sound like a joke. He does not succeed. He can feel Peter looking at him, concerned. “Well,” he says, with an effort, squaring his shoulders, “Fortunately, I’m going to make certain it never happens again.”

“You can’t, though,” Peter says. “I mean, there’s always going to be something you didn’t think of.”

“Sometimes I wish you weren’t so quick on the uptake,” Tony says. “How am I supposed to reassure you?”

“The point is,” Peter says, “you saved my life, and I figured it out, and now we’re going to fix it.”

Tony cocks his head to one side. “Ah,” he says, “the optimism of youth. I can scarcely remember—”

“I’m not that young,” Peter says. “And you’re not that old.” He licks some stray tomato sauce off his pinkie. It’s just a thing that is happening, not a thing that Tony feels any particular way about. He pours himself another drink.

“Who’s driving me back?” Peter asks.

“Good point,” Tony says. He switches to coffee.

 

**

 

“So,” Tony says. They’re waiting for the components to print. Peter is rolling around the lab on a stool. “I actually have a thought, tell me if this is crazy.” 

“Okay.”

“This Stark Internship thing,” Tony continues, “I remember a while ago you wanted access to the lab, well, is that something you still want, maybe, on a more regular basis? In an ideal world?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Duh.” He catches himself. “I mean, not duh, I mean, uh, a respectful yes.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “So if I pulled some strings and actually got you an internship with Stark Industries, say part time, and the other part would be just you tooling around the lab to your heart’s content for spider-purposes, is that, you’d be down with that?”

“Are you kidding?” Peter says. He almost falls off the stool; only his spider reflexes save him. “Wait, for real? For real, Mr. Stark?”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “I mean, yeah, for real, no, I’m not kidding.”

“Very much so,” Peter says. “Wow. Yes.”

“Good,” Tony says. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

 

**

 

Tony drives them back. It’s dark. After switching through all the radio channels and pronouncing most of the music in Tony’s internal hard drive unacceptable, Peter’s half-dozing to NPR in the seat next to him.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” Tony says, as they reach the outskirts of traffic and halt at a stoplight. “Almost there.”

Peter yawns, looks over at him. “Morning,” he says. He nestles back into the seat. “But what if you drove around the block a few times? I was almost done with my dream.”

“Good dream?” Tony asks.

Peter looks directly at him, deliberative. “Yes,” he says. Tony wonders if he’s lying, if he can see in Tony’s expression how desperately Tony wants him not to be broken yet. “Good dream.”

“I remember those,” he says.

Peter looks at him. The light turns green. “I’m sorry,” Peter says.

Tony drives.

“Who do you tell?” Peter asks.

“What?”

“The dreams,” Peter says.

“I handle it,” Tony says. They hit another red light.

“’Cause you can tell me,” Peter says. Tony looks over at him, nestled against the headrest, neck twisted in a position that does not look very comfortable. Eyes half-lidded. “I mean because I get it.” 

Tony chuckles.

“I’m serious,” Peter says.

“I know you are,” Tony says. They pull up. The light in Peter’s apartment window is on.

“Thank you for today,” Peter says.

“It’s the least I could have done.”

“No it’s not,” Peter says. “You have way better things to do with your time.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tony says. Someone behind them honks. He honks back. “Okay. Get home safe. See you at your internship.”

“I will,” Peter says, grinning. He unbuckles his safety belt. Looks over at Tony again. The space feels much smaller than Tony remembers. He thinks they are supposed to hug, or something. He doesn’t know why he is suddenly frozen. “And uh,” Peter says, “thanks, for not always treating me like I’m just a kid.”

“Okay, kid,” Tony says, paternal, exaggerated. He reaches over Peter to unlock the door. It mostly plays as a joke.

Peter gets out and flips him off, then immediately gets a mortified look. “Wait!” he shouts. “Mr. Stark! I did not mean--”

Tony laughs, flips him off back. “Night, Peter.”

 

**

 

Tony dreams that night. It’s not a nightmare, for once.

But it’s not the sort of dream he could tell Peter about, either.

In the dream he wakes up in his bed with eight pillows. Only Peter’s in it. Nestled sideways under the covers, hair mussed, neck exposed, eyes shut, bathed in the same green light. In the dream Tony lifts himself up on one elbow and looks at Peter, and Peter’s eyes blink sleepily open.  

Peter smiles at him. “ _Morning_ ,” Peter says; his eyes are warm and knowing and a little cocky, and just as Tony is about to wake up he remembers _everything_.

When Tony wakes up he searches through his archives and finds the recording of the call from Peter’s prom night. He listens to it all the way through, pauses it where Peter’s breath hitches and the noises stop. He tries very hard not to notice what he is doing until he’s finished. He thinks about deleting the recording, afterwards.

Doesn’t, though.


	11. Chapter 11

It is strange seeing Peter so often. It is stranger still seeing him so often in _company._  

Rhodey and Peter hit it off immediately. Watching Rhodey and Peter makes Tony feel immature and disgusted with himself. Rhodey locks up the bar. Rhodey manages to tease Peter about his sudden growth spurt without sounding as if he has any personal stake in it. Because, of course, Rhodey doesn’t, Tony thinks. _And neither do you,_ he thinks. _Of course this is not hard for him. For most people, Tony. How did this become hard?_

The feeling that he has to watch himself is new and alarming, and the only thing that is worse is the nagging thought: _it’s not because you want to watch yourself. It’s because there’s someone else here._

Then he thinks, no, I want to.

But still it’s frustrating. It’s not that he can’t make jokes with Peter. He makes jokes. It’s not that he can’t touch Peter. He touches him. Ruffles his hair, puts a hand on his shoulder. But he has to think about it. It’s like thinking about breathing. Suddenly all the movements that used to be automatic take _effort_ , because he is watching himself and watching Rhodey watch him and thinking, is this – normal? Is this – okay? Does Rhodey even guess? Guess what? he thinks. Guess -- nothing. There's nothing to guess. 

He thinks he can feel Peter looking at him, sometimes. He's not sure. He tries not to look back.

\--

He works on a new suit for Rhodey while the three of them are in the lab. It’s not something he was able to work on before; Rhodey knows him too well, kept calling the gesture for the guilt trip it was, but Peter gets immediately into the project, wants to know about everything. 

 

"Uh, do you feel the same way about the suit as Mr. Stark does, Colonel?" Peter asks, one evening. "You know, uh, the suit and I are one, to turn over the suit would be..."

“Hold up, you watched our testimony?” Rhodey says. He shakes his head. “Did you have a lot of spare time in your _even_ younger days?"

“I think everyone at my school watched his testimony,” Peter says. “I mean, Iron Man.”

 “Right,” Rhodey says. 

“And War Machine also, like, the coolest,” Peter adds, belatedly, looking sheepish. 

“I get it,” Rhodey says. “No, I get it. On the one hand, a decorated veteran, a military _hero_ , on the other hand, a guy who doesn’t know how to use an oven.” 

“I obviously know how to use an oven,” Tony says. “I am a genius engineer.” 

“Then why have I never seen you cook anything that wasn’t pancakes?” Rhodey says. 

“My pancakes are excellent,” Tony points out. “Does that get me points? Wait, do you cook? You don’t cook, how is this fair?”

“Kids don’t know how to choose their heroes,” Rhodey sighs.  

“What can I say,” Tony says, adjusting a component and throwing it back into the holo-display. “I have that bad-boy appeal.” He thinks Peter looks at him; he pointedly does not look back. 

“Tony Stank,” Rhodey says.

“Will I never live that down?” Tony asks, throwing up his hands.

“Mr. Stank?” Peter asks.

 Tony throws the hologram at him. He catches it – damn spider reflexes – and spins it in his hands. “Is this an extra stabilizer?”

“No,” Tony says. “But, wait, that is an idea. Also, I did notice you calling me Mr. Stank, and there will be consequences. Rhodey, that goes for you as well. Spreading this poison. Betrayed by my own wingman.”

 “A Stank by any other name,” Rhodey says. He looks at the clock. “Wait, Peter, it's nearly seven! You should head home.”

“It’s only seven!” Tony says.

“For most people,” Rhodey says, “that is the dinner hour.”

“Well,” Tony says, “why be most people?”

 But Happy brings the car around.

 

“Smart kid,” Rhodey says, after he leaves.

 “Yeah,” Tony says. “That’s an understatement. Friday, unlock the bar.”

“You were doing so well." 

“Well,” Tony says, “minors were present.”

“It’s crazy how young he is,” Rhodey says. “I can’t believe he’s just in high school.”

“When I was his age I was about to graduate from MIT,” Tony says.

“Your life has not been normal.”

“His isn’t either,” Tony says.

Rhodey nods. “No,” he says. “But I’m glad he’s still able to go to school, be a normal kid, hang around people his own age.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. Of course he is glad of this. Of course you’re glad, he thinks. No one ever said what happened to you was good. Of course he should have friends. “A normal life,” he says. “Can you imagine?” 

Rhodey laughs. “Not for everyone,” he says. “Is the party phase of his life over?”

“Maybe,” Tony says.

“You talk with him about it?” Rhodey says.

“Yes,” Tony says.

“What’d you say?" 

Tony gestures vaguely. “Oh,” he says, “general finger-wagging, do as I say, not as I do, young man, that sort of thing.”

“You could stand to cut down a bit,” Rhodes says. “He looks up to you a lot, you know.”

“I know.” Tony walks back over to the hologram, tries multiplying the stabilizers. It’s an interesting idea. “Who doesn’t, though?”

Rhodey laughs. “I worry about you, Tony,” he says. “All alone in your big rooms.” 

“I’m not alone,” Tony says, automatic. “I have Dum-E.” Dum-E swivels over in their direction. “I’ve had Dum-E since college.”

“See,” Rhodey says. “This is why I’m so glad the kid has friends his own age.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “You staying for dinner? Since it’s the, I guess, dinner hour.”

“I’m sorry, Tony. I have a thing,” Rhodey says. 

“Oh,” Tony says. “Go. Go do your thing.”

“What are you doing later?”

Tony gestures vaguely. “Party,” he says. “But I might not go.”

 

\-- 

He goes. He hates Rhodey for pointing out how empty everywhere is. He almost calls Pepper. Just – so the space might not be empty. But that’s not fair to her, he reminds himself. They’ve been over this so many times. Just because he has nobody. And then he thinks, not _nobody_ , and then he thinks, no, Tony, this is way worse.

\--

 

The next time Peter calls him after midnight Tony’s just come home from another party. He’s had a few. He looks at the phone ringing. Thinks: you could  _not_ answer. Then it rings again, and he does.

“Hi, kid.”

“Hey!” Peter says. "Mr. Stark!"

“Is everything okay?” Tony asks. “Are you safe?”

“Yes,” Peter says, “I’m fine. I’m actually great.”

“You’re _great_ ,” Tony says. 

“How are you?”

“I’m _effulgent_ ,” Tony says.

“Oh,” Peter says, “SAT word!”

“Have you even taken those?” Tony asks.

“How young do you think I am?” Peter says.

“Extremely,” Tony says.

“Well, I’m not,” Peter says. 

“Yes, you are,” Tony says.

“Well I’ve taken the SATs,” Peter says. “I got an eight hundred.”

“That seems low,” Tony says. “Isn’t it out of 1600?”

“I got an 800 on the math one.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“You seem happy,” Tony says.

“I am,” Peter says. “I missed talking to you.”

“You talk to me all the time,” Tony says.

“But Colonel Rhodes is there,” Peter says. “It’s different.”

Tony thinks he takes too long to answer. He should say: _No it’s not, kid._ Or: _there’s no reason it should be_. Instead he says, “Here I was getting worried you liked him better.”

“No way,” Peter says, “don’t even, Mr. Stark. You’re kidding. He’s great. Obviously. But. You’re Tony Stark.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Tony says, “you’ll give me a complex.”

“Like what?” Peter says.

“How you just said it,” Tony says.

“Tony Stark?” Peter asks. “No, hang on, I’m thinking about it now. Tony Stark?”

“Okay,” Tony says, “it’s weird now.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees.

“How’s your aunt?”

“See!” Peter says. “You missed this too. May is good. She’s really excited about the internship. She wants to come see me in action if her shift schedule ever lightens up. Which. I don’t know if it will.”

“Is this a problem I am allowed to throw money at?” Tony asks. 

“No.”

Tony wants to push it. Doesn’t. “How was patrol?” Tony asks.

"Thank you for asking, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. “I stopped a scooter thief! And there was a guy who got locked out of his home and I waited with him for the locksmith.”

“Suit working out?” 

“And!” Peter says. “I saw a lost dog poster and I tried to have Karen scan it and keep it on in the background in case I crossed paths with the dog, but every time we passed anything that looked like a dog she registered that and so after a while I turned it off, I think she didn’t get that it was a 2D picture, or maybe dog facial recognition was just not high on the list of programming priorities.”

“Dog facial recognition needs upgrade,” Tony says. He laughs helplessly, a little hysterically. “Oh, kid. Here I am trying my best to concoct bells and whistles to bestow on your suit, and I come up with, like, rapid fire, spider drone, instant kill, and you’re like, excuse me, Mr. Stark, we need to enhance the ability of the suit to rescue puppies.”

“I don’t think it would be a big programming thing, it was just frustrating to hear her saying ‘potential dog detected’ every time we encountered something dog-shaped.”

“Never change, Peter Parker,” Tony says.

“Oh no wait,” Peter says, “were you making fun of me?”

“I’m not making fun of you,” Tony says. “Just stating facts.”

“I feel a little made fun of.”

“You can dish it out,” Tony says. “But you can’t take it?”

“No,” Peter says, “I can take it, Mr. Stark.”

 _There it is,_ Tony thinks, and feels instantly ashamed of thinking. “How much have you had?” he asks, abruptly.

“Actually like, uh, nothing, I was just, I was just, I just finished patrolling and I felt, uh, just, good, and so I wanted to reward myself—”

“Talking to me is not a reward,” Tony says. “I mean, obviously, my conversation is a constant joy, a font of endless wisdom, and a blessing to anyone who encounters it, but –”

“Unless I’m annoying you,” Peter says.

“You couldn’t annoy me if you tried,” Tony says, automatic.

“Well, then,” Peter says, firm, “good, because. I like talking to you.”

“Well,” Tony says, “you are the first person I have ever encountered with that attitude, and I am sorry for you. Where are you?”

“I’m on a roof,” Peter says. “But! A safe roof.”

“Sure,” Tony says.

“Where are you?” Peter asks.

“I was at a party,” Tony says. “Now I’m… home.”

“Do you want company?” Peter asks.

Tony hopes his breathing doesn’t change. “I’m fine,” he says. “Why, lonely? I thought you had peer-group friends.”

“I do. But." There's a pause. Tony waits. "I can’t talk to them about half my life – I mean, Ned knows, but he doesn’t _know_. You know.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “I know.”

“But you _know_.”

“Are you okay?”

“Are you?” Peter asks.

There’s a pause.

“You can talk to me, you know,” Peter says. “If there’s anything—nightmares, or whatever.”

“I know,” Tony says. Something occurs to him that he can say and he can’t think of a reason not to say it (he can think of a hundred reasons; he chooses to ignore them.) “Actually,” he continues, trying to keep it light and casual ( _lying,_ his mind says _, stop lying_ ) “funny thing, Parker, you actually showed up in my dream the other night.”

“Yeah?” Peter asks. There’s sort of a funny pause; Tony doesn’t know what to make of it. “Was it a good dream, Mr. Stark?” There's just the slightest edge on the word "good" that Tony wants to pick apart, later. 

"Yeah."  

“What was I doing?”

Tony's mouth is dry. “I don't really remember," he says. This is a very definite lie. "I just remember it was good and you were there."

"Oh." Peter sounds disappointed. “Well. I’m glad my uh dream cameo was good.” There's a silence and then they both start talking at once. 

"Do I--" Tony starts, and Peter says, "Actually you were in--"

"You go," Tony says.

"Actually you were in one of mine too," Peter says.

"Was it a dream or a nightmare?" Tony asks. "I hope I’m not sending drones to ravage the countryside, or giving you tests you haven’t studied for.”

"No," Peter says. He laughs, a private laugh Tony wants to understand. "It was good."

"Good," Tony says. There's another silence. There's a thickness to the silence; it sounds like an ellipsis.  This cannot keep happening, he thinks. Every time you wind up here, every time the ice feels thinner. 

“Actually the Hulk is the one giving tests I haven't studied for," Peter says, a little belatedly. 

“Typical Banner,” Tony says. He musters a laugh. The thickness doesn't quite dissipate. "Well," he says, brisk, "if I am going to keep up this big dream action I'd better let you get some sleep."

"Right," Peter says. "Yeah." 

"Get home safe, young Spiderling."

"I will, Mr. Stark," Peter says. "Thanks." Then the call ends. Tony stares at his phone. 

It's fine, he thinks.

No it's fucking not, the voice says. You can't even begin to explain why any of this would be fine. _Yes, Peter. I've been dreaming about you._ Just splash it on a billboard, why don't you. Just print it in metal letters seven stories high on the side of a skyscraper. Why should you be subtle about anything, Tony Stark?

Shut up, he thinks.

Or maybe you really do think this is fine, the voice continues. Maybe you're an even bigger idiot than I thought.


	12. Chapter 12

 

Peter’s in the lab, tinkering away. Tony is drinking coffee, so hot it almost scalds his throat.

“Ooh,” Peter says, “coffee!” He grabs the mug, takes a sip.

Tony thinks about saying,  _careful, Parker, aren’t you scared of cooties_ , but it feels gross. He doesn’t.

They trade the mug back and forth, indirectly. Tony puts it down. Peter picks it up. The mug was warm already, he thinks, you can’t actually feel where he put his lips.

Peter glances at him, sometimes, over the lip of the coffee mug. Tony thinks the glance is appraising. He can't tell. He looks back. He tries to remember how he looked at Peter before his thoughts about him started to be so complicated. Before he started to notice anything about him (His arms. His long, careful fingers. The way his eyes light up. His  _mouth_.)

He tries to look like that. He thinks he’s succeeding. But he doesn't know. It is terrifying not to know.  

** 

Tony goes to a conference a continent away – it might as well not be; he doesn’t leave the hotel – and instead of behaving rationally and taking advantage of the advances of one of the many correct, eligible, beautiful people there, he demolishes the contents of the mini-bar in rapid succession and by the time the room has stopped spinning his phone has managed to dial Peter's number and it is ringing. He doesn’t even know what time it is.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks. He sounds chipper and awake.

 “What time is it?” Tony asks.

“It’s um actually a pretty sane hour,” Peter says, “it’s, like, eight o’clock here.” There’s a pause. “What time is it where  _you_  are?”

“I have no idea,” Tony says. “Not eight.”

“Drink water,” Peter says.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. He clears his throat. “You sound different. Your voice gets—looser?”

“My voice gets looser?” Tony says. “Looser? I don’t detect that. I’m not detecting any hint of that.”

Peter muffles a laugh into the phone.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says again. “Wait, you’re not, you’re not patrolling, are you?”

“No,” Peter says, immediately.

“What are you doing?”

“Talking to you,” Peter says.

“Thank you, Captain Self-Evident,” Tony says. “I mean, are you, alone? With those friends of yours? Are you on a hot date?”

“I’m not on a  _hot date_ , Mr. Stark,” Peter says.

“Okay,” Tony says, “whoa, don’t say it like it’s outside the realm of possibility, you could be, you’re a – strapping young lad. I’m sorry. I instantly regret that phrasing.”

“So do I,” Peter says. 

“I’m sorry,” Tony says. “You’re. I mean. You know. I don’t need to tell you.”

“Would you?” Peter asks.

“Would I what?”

“Tell me,” Peter says.

Tony swallows. “You know,” he says. “You know you’re perfect.”

Peter doesn’t say anything for a second. Tony strains to listen in the silence; with the alcohol everything is a muddy whirl of sound. “Y-yeah?” Peter says, finally. Tony thinks it’s supposed to sound confident, but it doesn’t, not really.

“That’s just a basic fact,” Tony says. It had felt too intimate, somehow,  _you know you’re perfect_ ; his voice had gotten lower and warmer. He tries to go for big, over the top. “The temperature at which water becomes a gas is 100 Celsius, a mole is 6.02 times ten to the twenty-third, and – have you met yourself? You’re smarter than ninety-nine percent of the population, you’re so fucking  _good_ , and – you’ve looked in a mirror, at some point, I assume.”

“I’m not  _tall,_ ” Peter says; Tony can hear the grin in his voice.

“Immaterial,” Tony says. He has a hand in his dress pants. He can’t figure out what any of the sounds on the other end of the line are. “Where are you?”

“In bed,” Peter says. 

“Top bunk or bottom bunk?”

“Bottom,” Peter says.

“You store stuff on the top one.”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “You remembered.”

“What are you doing right now?”

There’s a pause. He thinks he can hear the bed shift. “Are you going to be mad if I admit it,” Peter says.

Tony swallows, hard. “No,” he says. “Good. Okay. Me too, by the way. If there was any doubt of that.” Every time he shuts his eyes and reopens them the room becomes a series of splotches of light. “God, I shouldn’t tell you that, should I?”

“No,” Peter says, “you absolutely should, oh my God.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony says. “Oh god, I’m sorry. Have I just ruined everything?”

“N-no,” Peter says, “you haven’t, I promise.” Tony hears that sound – or rather, the absence of sound, the moment of hesitation – that he associates with Peter nerving himself up to say something. “Sometimes I wish you would.”

“Would what?”

“You know,” Peter says. “Ruin everything.”

“No, you don’t,” Tony says. “Trust me.” The room is spinning. Hang up the phone, a disembodied voice says at the back of Tony's head. Tony. Come on. 

“I do trust you,” Peter says.

“I don’t, anymore,” Tony says. “Especially not around you.” 

“Good,” Peter says.

“Good?” Tony says. “No, not fucking good, Peter, that’s not – I’m going to get off the phone.”

“Don’t yet,” Peter says.

“Peter,” Tony says. "I have to. It's so -- I can't say these things to you. I'm going to tell you shit I should absolutely never say out loud, and you're going to remember, and you're going to know what goes through my head when I look at you, and I'm going to fuck everything up. I already have. Fuck. Please forget that I called. I'm sorry. I'm just making this worse, aren't I? I'm going to hang up before I say more stupid shit to you. I'm sorry. Good night, Peter. Sweet dreams."

He hear's Peter's breathing catch. "Mr. Stark?" Peter starts, and Tony fumbles for the button to hang up in a kind of blind terror. It takes him several tries, but he gets it. 

 

In the morning his head is splitting open. There's a text from Peter. He doesn't open it.

He knows better than to listen to the call. 


End file.
